Blind Spot Revisited
by Mark Daniel
Summary: Blind Spot Revisited follows the general plot of the TV episode, but looks at the episode from a slightly different perspective, continuing along the story line that follows 'His Waking Life' and 'The Nightmare.'
1. Chapter 1

A.N. These characters are not mine.

* * *

**Blind Spot Revisited**

(Sequel to _His Waking Life _and _The Nightmare_)

_Chapter One_

July 17, 2006

Sitting in a police issue SUV outside of a Duane Reade's Pharmacy, Robert Goren was juggling seven independent thoughts in his head. At least three of those thoughts were pressing, while the other four remained somewhat peripheral.

The first item that occupied his mind was the constant, all-encompassing heat. It was an oppressive humidity that had come with the latest off-the-chart record heat wave. As a child, his mother never had the means to put an air conditioning unit in their apartment. Living on the fourth floor of a six-story complex, all but engrained the concept that heat rises. The results, at times, were unbearable – and to this day, he abhorred summer in New York.

Given his intense dislike of body odor and sweat in general, he continued to run the air in the Ford Explorer. He was keenly aware of the eco-unfriendliness of such behavior (thought number five), but was more uncomfortable by the concept of drenching his dress shirt.

The second thought that occupied his mind revolved around Eames; who was currently retracing the same steps their indicted murder suspect had gone through on the day Angela Melo was murdered. He glanced down at his watch every so often to track Eames' progress. Upon ADA Carver's request, they only need prove that the suspect's statements, (regarding the suspects' whereabouts and activities during Melo's murder), were implausible.

The final pressing thought was one that was uniquely shared by the entire eleventh floor at One Police Plaza. It was that of the new captain, whose scheduled first day on the job would commence tomorrow. The interim captain, Matt Flynn, had been transitioning Daniel Ross, (Jimmy Deakin's permanent replacement), over the last week. Therefore, the entire unit had an opportunity to make initial contact with Daniel Ross, even if the impressions made were superficial at best.

He glanced back down at his watch. He'd just caught sight of Eames ducking out of the bank across the intersection. Eames looked both ways before shooting across the street, only to be rewarded by the angry horns of several irate drivers. He chuckled when he observed his partner return a rather rude hand gesture, before she rounded the corner only a few paces away. Through the rearview mirror, he watched as Eames took a sharp left, approaching the victim's apartment stoop before disappearing from full view as she climbed the stairs. Based on his last time check, it was already clear that Eames was well beyond the time frame their suspect had provided.

Within seconds, his phone beeped.

"Yes?"

"I'm in."

"Okay," he responded before hanging up. He ran his hand through his hair, despite the cool air blowing mid-force, he was still perspiring something awful. He frowned as another bead of sweat trickled down the inside of his dress shirt. He wiped his brow, scratched at his midsection and wished for an early autumn. Eames should be back any moment.

"How'd I do?" Eames queried as she opened the passenger-side door and plopped down beside him.

"It's unlikely I'd mess with you," he replied, suppressing a smile.

Eames looked at him cross-eyed, "I'm sorry?"

"Uh, you were interested in the time," he pulled out his notepad, "Carver's case should be airtight, as there is no way our suspect could have made his claimed trek cross town, subway ride, and have time to stop off at the bank before returning home in time to make the 9-1-1 call from the home line."

"Good," Eames sighed heavily, blowing the stray bangs from her face, "it's hotter than hell out there. So, what's with the 'not messing with me?'"

"The gesture you made," he scratched at his left sideburn, "and, uh, your expression, maybe it's because I know you, but it was, uh, fierce."

"Oh," Eames' cheeks flushed almost imperceptibly, "you saw that?"

He nodded, scrawling a few additional lines on his notepad.

"I guess you would have," Eames spoke as she leaned forward to visually skim his notes, "but even at my fastest pace, it looks like our suspect didn't even come close."

"True," he nodded afirmatively, "he didn't. He must have killed her, and then hit the ATM before coming back to make the call."

"Uh, do you want to?" he offered, gesturing to the steering well, knowing full well that she preferred to drive.

"No, thanks," Eames replied smiling, "You know, right from the start you noted that our suspect was the jealous type."

"Not just any kind of jealous," Goren set down his notepad and put the SVU into drive, "he had, uh, a deep passion for her," he looked left, and signaled before pulling out into traffic.

"But now what? A man with all that passion - he lost the woman he loved the moment he killed her."

"In his mind, it was better to lose her than bear the thought of anyone else having her. Anything else, uh, was too painful for him to bear."

Eames shook her head, "That kind of intensity, I can't wrap my head around it. It's too much sometimes. I have to distance myself, you know?"

"It's not for everybody."

Eames nodded in acknowledgement, but her eyes told a different story. Her expression was vacant as she stared out of the passenger window, her left index finger was busy picking at the corner of her left thumb. Clearly she was lost in her thoughts, and he would be lying if he didn't admit that it unnerved him slightly.

After several minutes, the detective part of his nature forced him to pry, "Have you heard anything else about the new guy?"

Her somewhat surprised reaction, told him that this was probably not the key to her recent pensive demeanor, "None. I still only know the same generic details that everyone knows: that Ross was the head of the Joint Task Force on International Money Laundering for three years, and in that time, I guess he really stood out, shook up the department and made a name for himself. Well, enough to help him stand out in the Chief of D's mind. Like my Dad always said, 'it's political.'"

He nodded in silent agreement, "We'll all know soon enough."

"I have heard on more than one occasion that Ross is a 'hands-on' captain. And if that's the case, he's going to be sticking his nose in our business much more than Jimmy."

"I've heard that too," he spoke quietly, thinking he might have found the key to why Eames had been so pre-occupied, "do you think he'll shake up our department too?"

"It's possible," Eames bit at her lower lip, "I've been trying to get the inside scoop, you know, get the details on all the measures Ross employed to turn the Joint Task Force around."

"And what does your instinct tell you?"

"Re-assignments are almost always unpopular internally, but if Ross wants to make major changes, he's probably going to make most of those changes immediately."

"And if Ross reassigned us?"

"He could, Bobby."

He nodded slowly, trying to exude as much calm as possible. It wasn't easy spending most of your waking life with an experienced detective. Eames could read his expressions just as well as he could read hers.

"Well," he swallowed thickly, "we'll, uh, deal with it when whatever it is comes our way."

Perhaps it was his own naivety, but since finding a comfortable working relationship with Eames, (something he'd never quite experienced before), he'd never even considered that at some point she might not be his partner. How would he react? Would he stay at Major Case? What would happen if he lost her, professionally and personally?

Several years ago, the line between a working partnership and a personal relationship had blurred. Currently they'd found an equilibrium of sorts, and worked through a complex aftermath of not having an intimate relationship outside of work. Finally, after much fluxuation, things had truly fallen into a comfortable rhythm.

And now quite suddenly, due to a change in the leadership of the Major Case department, he could be forced to look into the idea of a future without Eames. And with that, Robert Goren found himself juggling eight independent thoughts in his head.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

July 17, 2006 – One Police Plaza – 8:57 p.m.

"Uhhhh, no. Hang on, let me check the fax."

"Wait, you're still at the office?"

It was clear that they had worked together long enough to have an effect upon one another, an effect that some partners experienced after they'd worked together for an extraordinarily long time. Tonight he quickly recognized her inquisitor-like tone, one of his least favorite quirks. True, in such situations, he could put on the appearance of ignoring her completely, but internally was another story. Indeed, he was sensitive.

"Uh, nothing yet," he reported, understanding that this would slightly complicate issues.

"Damn," Eames muttered under her breath, "it would look good if we could have the completed file on Ross' desk first thing in the morning, but," she stopped mid-thought, "well, it's no big deal."

He paused, giving her time to process what she needed, "anything else?"

"No, I'm still waiting to hear back from Carver, or his assistant on setting aside time to prep for trial," she paused again, "are you headed out soon?"

"No, uh, I'll be here."

"I'm done with my routine," Eames noted, "and I was going to hit the shower before I head out of the city. Do you want to catch a bite?"

"Okay," he suppressed a sigh, realizing that she'd most likely find out about his reasons for staying late at the office. His AC unit was on the fritz and he didn't want her to know that it was his intention to bunk up at headquarters for the night.

"Do you want to meet up at Haru's?"

"Yeah, uh, say thirty minutes?"

"It might be closer to forty," Eames replied, "but my treat, okay?"

"I'll get a table," he offered before ending the call. Something heavy was weighing on Eames' mind. Considering how anxious she was to get the final report on the captain's desk, he couldn't help but wonder if her concern had to do with the conversation they'd had earlier in the day. Within an hour, he'd know the answer.

* * *

July 17, 2006 – Haru's Sushi Bar and Grill, Manhattan, NY – 9:46 p.m.

Under the dim lights of the sushi bar, Goren noticed that Eames' cheeks were still flush from her workout routine.

They sat at a small table for two, both preoccupied as they set to slurping down their miso soup. He couldn't help but notice that Eames picked around the larger chunks of seaweed.

"You know," he set his chopsticks atop his now empty bowl, "seaweed is a great source of iron, B12 and vitamin C."

"I have a hard time with the texture," Eames frowned slightly, "and proportionally, they gave me far too much seaweed, not enough tofu."

He smiled sweetly, as he was going for calm, or anything to put his senior partner at ease.

"You're worried about Ross?"

Eames nodded, "And about us, well, I guess I mean about what could happen in the next few weeks or so."

"We have a great track record, possibly the best on the eleventh floor."

"Definitely the best on the eleventh," Eames affirmed, "and we get away with a lot because of it."

"_I_ get away with a lot," he corrected, clearing his throat slightly before sipping some warm sake.

Eames shook her head, "I didn't mean it like that at all."

"I know you didn't."

"I wanted," Eames paused, her voice sounding unusually vulnerable, "I wanted this to be a nice evening for us, you know, just in case."

He smiled again, leaning his head to the side to see if he could get a better read on her, before quietly adding, "the calm before the storm."

"Exactly," Eames returned his smile tentatively. Was he sensing a shyness about her?

For a good fifteen seconds or so there was an awkward silence between them, Goren sighed and sat back in his chair, his heart heavy. Eames was being sentimental and he found it rather touching that she was sharing her feelings with him. In retrospect, Eames had been much more forthcoming, as far back as December 2004, when they'd both overcome a difficult interaction with Nicole Wallace.

"No matter what comes of this, uh, Alex," he spoke slowly, to keep his emotions in check, "you know what this partnership means to me."

He could see that her eyes were bright and intently focused on his words, she too was searching for a kind of assurance. And if he recalled correctly, this was the second time she'd come to him looking up to him for strength, advice, hope, comfort – and it never failed to blow him away.

_The first time she had come to him, he was not expecting anything of such magnitude. He remembered the way she looked up at him in the elevator of his apartment: the night she told him about her surrogate pregnancy. He remembered how shocked he'd been that she'd come to him with that very same vulnerable look in her eyes. The manner in which she approached him was foreign. She'd actually hesitated, as if she were nervous about telling him. At the end of the evening, he'd nearly suffered insomnia: wondering why his approval mattered, and more importantly, why Eames had found relief in his arms._

"Remember," he spoke quietly, fighting the urge to take hold of her hand, "this is all premature. But if, uh, if something does come out of it and Ross splits us," he paused, uncertain of how to finish what he wanted to say, he knew he was treading on new ground, "maybe, maybe, uh, maybe something else can come of it."

"What?" Eames responded rather anxiously.

Her response was so quick. So quick, that he knew almost immediately that she hadn't caught his gist, dare he go further?

And just as he decided to elaborate on his thought, (a thought that involved him telling Eames that perhaps it would be a good time to try a different kind of partnership – one without the complications that arose during their last attempt), the waiter arrived with two lovely arraignments of sushi. As much as he loved Japanese cuisine, this had to be the worst timing in history. After all, he'd almost mustered up the courage to ask Eames something he'd been meaning to ask her for a while.

So instead of elaborating, they enjoyed a lovely meal, even as questions continued to loom heavy in both of their minds. During the meal, (no thanks to his apartment management), Goren received a call to informed him that his AC unit was finally fixed, and in that time Eames deducted why he hadn't yet left work. In turn, he found out that one month ago, Eames had turned down an invitation to the cape with her nephew, due to the fact that they were embroiled in a most stressful case involving a high profile serial killer in Queens.

It wasn't until after he returned home: rolled out of his sweat-soiled clothing, showered and was flossing tiny orange tobiko out of his teeth, that he recalled he'd nearly asked Eames out. What had he been thinking? If Ross didn't separate them, (his preferred choice), would telling her how he felt bring a wedge back between them? And yes, he'd been playing with the idea of trying to start something with Eames ever since the time ADA Jack McCoy filled Goren's head with the idea of relationship possibilities with Eames. McCoy's advice led Goren to believe that there could be a second chance, and more importantly, perhaps there were some things worth doing - even when that idea seemed to go against all rational thought.

_But that seed was planted over a year and a half ago. And some seeds require stress to germinate. In fact, some seeds need to be activated by a scorching fire. _

_And one should keep in mind, that it damn near took a nightmare to plant the seed in the first place._

_As Goren lay down on his bed, book in hand, a nightmare was unleashing itself on the daughter of a former New York ambassador. In the morning he and Eames would get the call to go investigate the tortured body of Heidi Conington. And soon after, both of their lives would irrevocably change forever. _

_And there was no way he could see any of this coming, even a year-and-a-half after Wallace had stormed in and out of his personal life. Sure, he'd had an inkling, but was not fully aware of his own blind spot. And who is? Of course it had not escaped Goren's mind that he had one – all vertebrates have one, i.e., a part of the field of vision that is not perceived. _

_But like most blind spots, he'd filled it with so many rational justifications, that until now his true feelings for his partner remained obscured at best. _


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

July 18, 2006

Less than an hour after an official introduction to their new captain, Goren and Eames received orders mid-morning from Daniel Ross personally. After all, this was the daughter of a former New York ambassador.

Ross immediately cut to the chase, "You are getting this because I want swift resolution, that and you've got the best record at Major Case Squad. I've already received several calls from some of the highest offices in New York, not to mention a personal inquiry from the President of the United States."

After commanding full eye contact with each of them, Ross' tone was anything but calm, "I hope I'm making myself clear."

Goren nodded, and watched as Eames gathered her gear to go.

"Keep me in the loop, I want an update immediately." Ross called out after them.

* * *

Heidi Conington's apartment was buzzing with activity. A one-block radius had been blocked off. Reporters, photographers, and CSI created a rather heterogeneous mix with the NYPD crew. Goren helped Eames cut through to the front entry way, simultaneously beating back the more aggressive media.

Officers stationed outside Conington's door proceeded to give them the third degree, even after he'd flashed his badge.

"We've already got two detectives on the scene."

"Major Case," Eames countered tersely, "and you will step aside, so we can take over the investigation."

"C'mon," Goren bellowed, using every inch of his height and build to intimidate. He leaned forward, quickly surveying the situation: only to recognize that some idiot had allowed a family member into the crime scene.

Less than two feet into the door, Eames was stopped by a NYPD detective who rather plainly stated, "We've got it covered, my dear."

"Major Case," Eames replied squinting, as if she was uncertain as to how to deal with any person who referred to her as _dear_, "and we've been given orders to take control of this investigation, thank you detective – "

"Detective Fontana."

Goren eyeballed the detective up and down, the accent was Midwestern, possible from Chicago. Fontana held the stereotypical machismo he'd become familiar with after years of working on the force. Reading Fontana's body language, Goren assumed Eames could handle her own. He also quickly calculated that Fontana's currently mild demeanor might flare if a more aggressive approach, i.e. being accosted by another male authority, someone like himself, were to occur.

He wheeled past the potential conflict and moved on to Fontana's partner: a handsome, well-dressed man who was interviewing the individual he assumed to be ex-ambassador Conington.

Goren moved in swiftly, "excuse me," he eased his way between the NYPD detective and the ambassador while he flashed his badge, "Detective Goren, Major Case, do you mind if I have a word with you detective?"

The detective nodded and motioned to the adjacent room to create some privacy.

"Detective Green from the 2-7," the young detective spoke smoothly extending his right hand, "and to what do we owe the pleasure of Major Case?"

"Direct orders to oversee the investigation. As you know Major Case is directly directed by the Chief of D's. You may contact your captain with any questions, I'm sure he's already been briefed."

"She," Green corrected, "and I'll contact lieutenant Van Buren now."

"No offense, detective, but just how did _she_ get in?" Goren asked gruffly, pointing in the ex-ambassador's direction.

Green frowned as he autodialed his commanding officer, "well, it looks like _she _is your problem now."

With that, he bee-lined for the body, which was grotesquely on display in the center of the main living area. He wanted to avoid the ambassador at all costs – the crime scene was brutal, and not made for a mother to see.

To his disappointment, the ex-ambassador was hovering over her daughter's brutalized body mumbling, "I'm not your little girl anymore."

As expected, the ex-ambassador's pained voice upset his sensibilities, and he found himself gently ushering her away from the body, "Ambassador Conington, uh, please, could you -"

"It's the last thing she said to me on the phone," ex-ambassador Conington's eyes kept trailing back to her daughter's broken body, "Heidi wanted me to know that she was finally washing _him_ out of her hair.

Goren took meticulous notes about an ex-boyfriend by the name of Enrique. According to ex-ambassador Conington, Enrique, a med-student, and Heidi had just called their relationship quits. Once Goren felt he'd gathered all the information he needed, he quietly excused himself after expressing multiple condolences to the ex-ambassador.

When he started back to the body, Eames had already gotten a head start. When he made eye contact with his partner, her eyes reflected the horror of the gruesome death that lay before her. He nodded slightly to convey that he'd finished his interview and was ready to listen to her initial observations.

"Did you lose the tough guy?" he spoke quietly, trying to diffuse the tension.

Eames smiled softly, "I've had my share of Italians on the job, and I think I've got a handle on most of them."

And as quickly as the tension was diffused, the seriousness of the situation came to when Eames verbalized her first set of observations, "Jagged cuts to the clothes, at least a dozen stab wounds."

"The med student," Goren pointed loosely to a neat pile of the ex-boyfriends goods, "uh, he should have books, there's no medical books."

He leaned in to take a closer look at the wounds, "uh, this is not scalpel work."

"Mmmm, more like torture," Eames frowned, her eyebrows furled in thought, "revenge?"

Before he could respond to her question, he smelled something subtle, "You smell that? It's like a s-scent, body lotion, uh, rose petals."

"But not a young woman's scent," Eames nose twitched, "It's _Pierre Laritz_, my Aunt Grace used it."

"So did the killer."

* * *

Hours later, after Eames had updated their new captain twice, they moved on to conduct as many interviews as possible. They split the list in order to cover as much ground as possible. First they explored Conington's workplace: _The Museum of Sex_ on Fifth Avenue. A place he'd never been to, but had considered visiting out of general curiosity.

"Eames, did you know that there are over 5,000 artifacts on display?"

"And I guarantee most of them are visual," Eames smirked as she pointed past the storefront and into the main gallery whose "erotic roadmap" bragged a large multimedia collection.

"Alfred Kinsey would have been confounded," he spoke slowly, his eyes drawn in by the many glowing visual displays, "uh, so you want to check in at the main storefront, and uh, I'll hit the gallery."

"I bet you will," Eames shook her head slowly, "don't get lost."

With that, he found and interviewed a young employee who served security detail for the museum. Very quickly, he discovered a few unusual tidbits about Enrique and the dynamics between the two lovers before things had gone south. Apparently, there had been a spat in the museum the previous night. But beyond some general observations, Goren was finding it difficult to focus.

When it came to almost any working case at hand, Eames described Goren as having tunnel vision; he could block everything out and focus on minute details – regardless of the environment. In actuality, he knew that this was not always the case. He still became claustrophobic in enclosed spaces, be it an elevator or underground – as in the time they travelled down deep into the city tunnels to interview New York's strange underworld. And currently, in the _Museum of Sex_, he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate as audio and visuals flashed images of a heterosexual couple heavily petting in the background. The sounds associated with intercourse reverberated in his eardrums. And it wasn't that he was turned on by anything he saw or heard in particular, but rather he decided that it came down to the sad fact that as of late, he'd been ignoring his sexual appetite.

It was no mystery to his psyche that he had a thing for his partner. Periodically he'd displace his affections elsewhere or would distract himself with work, but honestly, it had been nearly half a year since he'd tried displacing his affections, and frankly this museum was a sore reminder that he was sexually frustrated. The overwhelming, and at times over-the-top displays were creeping into his senses, and he found himself noticing subtle body responses which made him generally uncomfortable. Thank god Eames was far away in another section of the building, and thank god for the fact that he was carrying something; anything he could use to cover the fact that he was getting a little hard downstairs.

His ability to focus certainly wasn't helped by the fact that the security interviewee was boring as hell, thick as a brick, not to mention condescending as hell.

"Look, I know cops aren't big on psychology."

"Yeah," he spoke feigning sincere interest, as he decided to play out his perceived role as a knuckle-dragger, "as a rule we like to talk about guns. Uh, so their last fight?"

". . . uptown girl – inner city guy – she rubs his nose in it?"

"Yeah."

"Do you see where I'm going?"

"Uhh," he paused, feeling like he should get an academy award for his performance, "it's a class thing?"

"Like a class thing."

"Yeah I got that," he muttered, going out of the way to jot notes frenetically in his notepad. Jesus Christ. He hoped Eames was having a bit more luck.

* * *

They met ten minutes later in the museum lobby and exchanged enough information to confirm that Enrique was in fact not a medical doctor, as the ex-ambassador believed.

"An underware model?"

"Yes," Eames rolled her eyes, "and you've gotta wonder how Heidi pulled that one over her mother's eyes. It's enough to make me glad I don't have any."

"So," Eames continued rather playfully, "how was the gallery? Will you be coming back to pay full admission?"

He shook his head and lowered his eyes, hoping that the low lighting might conceal the red that was creeping into his cheeks, "it's not quite what I was expecting. Uh, but I'll tell you about it later," he cleared his throat and stopped to open his binder in part to distract and inform Eames of his personal take on the relationship of Enrique and Heidi.

As far as he was concerned, this museum was no place to cruise in and out with Eames. There was enough sexual frustration in his current life to even consider playing with such fire.

Soon thereafter, Eames was buzzed in by headquarters: Enrique had already been picked up and transported to 1PP. Now there was truly no reason to be hanging around the _Museum of Sex_. Ex-ambassador Conington was busy being proactive, which was effectively working their new captain into a frenzy.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

July 18, 2006 – One Police Plaza

Upon return to the station, Eames was immediately pulled aside by their new captain, Daniel Ross.

From his desk, Goren observed quietly as Ross and Eames began what seemed to be an intense conversation. Ross seemed to be doing most of the talking, pacing intensely as Eames kept stride. And while Goren wished he could take part in the conversation, his more rational side reminded him that solving the puzzle of Heidi Conington was his most important task, and for more reasons than one.

As Eames dealt with the more pressing administrative issues, Goren focused on the preparation for questioning Enrique Zuella. First, he flipped attentively through all the files that pertained to the Conington case. He studied every photo and perused his notes methodically before slowly transferring his mind into that of a dumped lover: a man who when photographed with the victim, appeared to have nothing but adoration beaming from his eyes.

And before long, Goren found himself one on one with Mr. Zuella. The initial questions asked were those that Goren had used over a hundred times, the denials that came out of Enrique were not only predictable, but "old as time."

"I love her. I never hurt her"

Goren nodded, pacing, writing notes, more pacing. Part of his collection of bizarre antics was to fuck with Enrique; the other part was simply Goren being Goren.

"She uh, she threw you out, o-out on the street – she was selling your stuff?" Goren queried. For this interrogation his preferred approach was: passive aggressive meets rapid-fire-response. And before Enrique could reply to any of the questions, Goren sat down directly across from the handsome Latino underware model adding, "It, uh, had to make you angry?"

"She's high strung. We always make it right."

"Ohhh," Goren sat back in his chair and scribbled on his notepad, "Oh-kay, always make it right."

Abruptly, Goren leaned over, his fingers searching carefully before pulling out the recently torn photo of Enrique and Heidi. It was a photo that had been recovered from Heidi's apartment, "Maybe, uh, maybe this time it was different," he spoke in a low tone as he held up both segments of the photo, wagging them in the suspect's face, while searching for any subtle reaction, "it can be scary you know, when somebody goes away – especially someone you love so much?"

Enrique sighed, his shoulders sagging, "just between us, I was worried."

"So you left your stuff so you'd have to deal with her again?"

"Right," Enrique huffed, "is that a crime? I mean," Enrique paused and started to twitch nervously, "what did she say I did?"

All the while Goren's eyes remained fixed to the table, pausing as he had time to take everything in: Enrique's answers, Enrique's body language: in general, it didn't ad up.

"Where were you last night?"

"I was home alone. C'mon man. Tell me what she said I did."

From the file, Goren's finger edged at the eight-by-ten inch color crime scene photo. Without speaking a word, Goren whipped out the photo, laying it square on the table right in the middle of Enrique's field of vision.

Enrique's eyes widened in authentic horror and disbelief, "oh my god. Is this real?"

Goren's face was tight, his tone serious, "you tell me."

Enrique remained frozen, staring dumfounded at the photo.

Goren instantly recognized the look of fear in the suspect's eyes. It was time for the final squeeze, "Enrique, where were you last night?"

And with that, not only did Enrique fail to confess; more importantly, the suspect failed to show any indication of true guilt. What asshole would fabricate a story that they were seeing another girl, and yet choose not to tell anyone because they were afraid their ex would find out? That was not the kind of bullshit alibi a young sexpot underware model makes up on the spot. Goren turned one hundred and eighty degrees in his chair to face the two-way glass. Even though he couldn't see Eames, he was looking out towards her, his expression communicating that the interrogation was over.

Leaving the shaken Enrique in the interrogation room, Goren walked into the adjacent room to find Eames and Ross on the other side of the glass.

"Good interview," Ross stated plainly, the sarcasm wasn't difficult to detect. In the background, Eames jaw tightened visibly. She was biting down slightly on her lower lip, as if she was having a hard time maintaining her silence. Goren knew the look: Eames was irate.

"Hold him until the girl confirms his alibi and then street him," Ross glowered before heading out to leave the observation deck, "What I said," Ross added looking specifically at Eames before he closed the door behind him.

"I'm supposed to keep an eye on you," Eames noted, barely repressing her frustration.

He smiled softly, "Well, uh, let me know if I can help you."

Eames sighed heavily, her arms tightly crossed across her chest, a tight smile displacing the previous glare that had been directed at the back of their new captain.

He broke into a grin, finding it impossible to stifle his laughter. It all came down to releasing some steam; laughing and grinning because their nerves were both shot.

After the tension subsided, Eames brought both of her hands up to cradle her head, "Jesus, Bobby, we are not off to a good start. It's almost like - "

He stood there quietly, waiting for Eames to finish her thought. Internally, he was furious that Ross had decided to torment his most cherished partner, "Eames?"

"I mean, I can't tell if he's just testing me, or if he's setting us up for a permanent split."

"So, what did he say?"

"Well, as soon we got back, Ross immediately wanted to know if we believed Enrique was guilty. I answered him honestly – I told him that _we_ weren't sure."

Goren nodded, his eyes cast downward, trying hard not to be distracted by her body language.

"That's when he said something bullshit like: 'You're not sure, or your partner's not sure?'"

Eames massaged her left temple as she continued to vent, "I mean, what sort of bullshit question is that? I appreciate your loyalty blah, blah, blah. You know what? _I have_ a reason to be loyal to you. Not him. I don't even know him. And then he uses that bullshit psychological mind-fuck about how 'I'm sure it took you a long time to get to Major Case.'

Quite suddenly, his face felt warm as he found himself not only becoming upset in regards to Ross' tactics, but in the sense that all of this was really taking a toll on her.

Without thought, he quickly navigated around her (in the middle of her recollection of events, no less) to lock the door for privacy. It took him a second to realize that his actions caused Eames to stop talking mid-sentence.

But before Eames had an opportunity to have any kind of reaction, he quickly motioned her over to the lone table at the other side of the room, the table that was as far away from the door as possible. She approached him tentatively, a question still etched upon her face.

He proceeded to sit down on top of the table; and because of his height, he was able to do so with his feet still touching the ground. This simple act had become second nature, though admittedly, he mostly used this technique with Eames: it ensured that he didn't have to lean, or bend to meet with her eye-level. He was empathetic enough to understand that she had to crane her neck most of the time, and therefore, it was the least he could do.

"Bobby."

"Eames," he gestured again, inviting her to come even closer.

"Ross asked me to keep you in check, and added that you are know for over-thinking your cases, I mean, he basically referred to you as – "

"As a head case? A whack job? Eames, listen. I've heard it all. And, as you know, everyone who has worked with me has a tough time adjusting to my s-style."

She took another step closer, until she was but an arm's length away.

"No," Eames shook her head, "When we were first assigned, if you recall, I was still having a difficult time adjusting to just about everything," Eames soft brown eyes reflected a kind of pain, (he knew immediately that she was referring to the difficult transition she experienced after her late-husband's death), "Honestly, I don't know what it is this time Bobby. But, I can't have them speaking about you in this way. I mean, you know, I can handle just about anything, but this - this time, I'm just - "

"Ross is not going to split us Eames. He's," Goren paused, "he's uh, he's just fucking with you – you know, to fuck with me. He's trying to make a strong and lasting impression. Ross is scared, uh, as you know, this is a big case to start your career with at Major Case. Everyone's got him under the microscope. He's just displacing all his frustrations and fears."

Eames nodded, her eyes bright and moist, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly. She was afraid, and that fact alone spooked the shit out of him.

"C'mon," he spoke quietly, his right hand gently squeezing her left shoulder, "let's go show Ross why we've got the best record in MCS."

"Thanks," Eames voice wavered slightly as she tried to smile, "I'll meet you on the floor in a second."

If he could give into his true desires, he wanted nothing more than to take her away from this pressure cooker: to hold her, wrap her up and take her home, to kiss her, pleasure her, and most importantly help her understand how much he appreciated her unconditional loyalty.

But within the walls of reality, he eased off the table and left as ordered: to give Eames the space and privacy she needed before she went back out into what use to be work as usual, but now seemed more like a very foreign and hostile environment.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

July 18, 2006 – One Police Plaza

After the questioning of Enrique Zuella, Goren returned to his workstation to track down Enrique's alibi. While his mind was busy gathering the correct contact information, his heart was still in the observation room, waiting patiently with Eames.

And that was the funny thing about Eames – he'd never asked her for any of it, but from the beginning she stuck by him, as if it were against every fabric of her being to be anything less than loyal. And he knew she was from NYPD stock, blue to the core, but, fuck, the list of what she had done for him over the years: the confidence she'd instilled, the stability she'd offered and the hope.

And it seemed ridiculous, and perhaps it bordered on romantic, but when he caught her out of the corner of his eye, walking back to the main floor towards their workstation, the look of determination etched on her face: he felt like he was finally able to breath again, as if the state of his health and heart were stronger than ever.

Before he started his round of calls, he'd decided tonight would be the night. Tonight he would tell her about all the little things that had been ruminating in his head over the past couple of years. For fuck's sake, she wore her heart on her sleeve for him and stuck out her neck in times of trouble again and again. It was time to show her what intimate thoughts occupied his heart and mind. Eames needed to hear it. He'd seen the need in her eyes at Haru's the night before, the worried lines deepen around her eyes and mouth, and the way she'd nearly broken down from the stress in the observation room: she'd been looking for some kind of reassurance.

As he finished tracking down Enrique's alibi, Eames was working another one of ex-ambassador Conington's leads. It wasn't entirely uncommon to take all the leads of a family member seriously, mostly it depended on the clout of the individual. And because they were trying to make a good first impression with Ross, Eames was running down each lead, and covering her ass.

He couldn't help notice that Eames had stopped typing, and that she was now deeply engrossed with some item she'd found on her laptop.

"You got something?" Goren queried, edging his way to her side of the desk.

On her screen, he saw what appeared to be an online _Craigslist _ad. The title of the ad, which he found to be quite humerous read: To HELL With My Boyfriend. Buy His Stuff Dirt CHEAP!

"Heidi's mom mentioned that Heidi was selling some of Enrique's stuff online, take a look."

Goren chuckled after he read the ad aloud, "I'm glad I don't use the internet, or rather I'm glad some of my ex-girlfriends didn't use the internet. Lot includes: weight set, CD collection, leather jacket, boombox, toolset and more. What kind of person responds to this kind of ad?"

"It's pretty easy for someone to email a high bid and arrange a pick up."

"So the guy she buzzed in wasn't coming for the CD's, he was hunting."

Before Eames could nod, her phone lit up and vibrated on her desk. She picked up her cell and read the incoming number, "It's the morgue."

* * *

When they arrived at the morgue, the medical examiner on staff, Elizabeth Rodgers, looked out of sorts. Perhaps it was because one of the fluorescent panels was flickering at random intervals. More likely, it was due to the fact that there was a serious body count present. Far more bodies than he'd ever seen, table after table, while an insurmountable amount of paperwork littered most of the open countertops.

"See," Eames sighed, "It's even like this even when you kick the bucket, you've still got to wait in line to get an autopsy."

He smiled, delighted that Eames' humor was still in tact. It was easily one of his favorite quirks about her.

He quickly edged his way around Rodgers, towards Heidi's body.

Rodgers snorted, "So, how's my favorite detective? Sorry, we're backed up. July in New York, the killing gets easy."

"And these stab wounds?"

"My guess? Old sewing box pinking shears."

"Ughh," Eames wrinkled her nose, "are those the ones with the jagged blades that come up to a sharpened point?"

Rodgers nodded, "that would be consistent with the shape and contours of these wounds. It also appears that the tissue damage is more severe, see these larger sections here, on the later, or most recent entry points."

His brain whirred, as he was in his element, "it's as if the killer's rage built up as he moved along."

Eames sighed before asking, "Um, we noticed a kind of scent, a lotion perhaps?"

Rodgers moved towards the victim's feet and pulled back the covering to reveal what appeared to be a rash.

"I found traces of lotion in the folds of her labia. And as you can see, she had a definite allergic reaction."

He moved in to take a closer look at the deep purple and reddish scabs that dotting the area around the victim's inner thighs.

"Any semen?"

"No, but signs of penetration with a foreign object."

His brain went on a methodical jaunt, he was mumbling ideas that sprang to his mind, unaware that he was actually whispering, "He may have erectile dysfunction in the presence of females. Most likely he was raised to feel shame in his sexuality. He likes to experiment, wants to watch the victim's reactions? A true sadist - "

He probed the victim's leg near her genitals. Besides the rash, there wasn't that much external evidence of the sodomy Rodgers referred to.

Eames voice gently jogged him out of his mind-walk, "She wouldn't own a lotion she was allergic to, the killer brought it."

"Part of his toolkit," he nodded, "and the scent was part of his ritualized sadism."

Eames brows furrowed, as she used her intuitive skills to read more into what he'd relayed. Tilting her head to the side, she looked up at him from under her long bangs, "you recognize this."

"Not the scent, but uh, the shears and the binding - reminds me of a case study from," he paused, as he dug an old memory from his past, "uh, fifteen years ago?"

"A copycat? I mean, Rodgers so much as confirmed the _Pierre Laritz_ lotion."

"Or the original picking up where he left off?"

Goren sighed, he needed time to get his mind back into that place, into the mind of the serial killer that had used a similar signature, "either way, it's not his last."

As they were leaving the examination room, Eames excused herself to use the restroom.

"I'll wait for you out front," he said, scratching the back of his head; he was still very deep in thought. There was something so familiar about the killer. Could it really be the same person he'd been assigned to track down over fifteen years ago? Then, without warning, his head physically caught the corner of something hard.

"Jesus," he muttered turning back to see that he'd clipped an information sign, (complete with a directional arrow that pointed towards the Medical Examiner's office), hanging from the ceiling. He rubbed his upper right temple, hoping that nobody saw him smack his head. He stepped up his pace to the front sign-in/sign-out sheet, and waited, stomach growling. Perhaps he could blame his accident on hypoglycemia, but he knew better, it was that fucking tunnel vision Eames often described in regards to his ability to block everything out.

He looked down at his watch, it was definitely time to get something to eat. He spotted movement down the hallway, Eames was on her way, but Rodgers had trapped her for a quick conversation. He rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand and tried to appear nonplussed about the entire affair.

When his partner came into full view, she had a funny expression on her face.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good," Eames answered quickly, making strong eye contact, a smile playing on her lips, "you?"

"Hungry," he answered, craning his neck to see if Rodgers was still standing down the hallway, "You up for dinner?"

Eames nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

"Carmine's?"

She looked a bit startled, "sure."

They hadn't been to Carmine's in ages. Not since he'd mustered the courage to ask her out the first time. And during that initial date, he'd been so careful to ensure that the evening ran smoothly. There was the single rose, the books he researched and purchased for her regarding her pregnancy, not to mention the pure desire he felt for making a relationship outside of work succeed.

_. . .when she first noticed the rose . . . , "thank you," she whispered a bit stunned, picking up the rose by its long stem and rolling it between her tiny strong fingers, "it's, um, it's very beautiful."_

_He smiled inwardly, taking her jacket before helping her push in her chair. He was turned away from her when he commented, "just like you." The words were impromptu, and they rolled out unsuspectingly, as if he was no longer in control of his own body, actions or what came out of his mouth. He was just going with the flow. It seemed right . . ._

_"Um, I thought this might be," he paused, "well I hoped this might be a good setting to, uh, talk about our relationship outside of work."_

_

* * *

_

They ate most of their meal in silence. They were both famished and mentally tired from a rather eventful work day.

Eames was the first to break the silence. Perhaps it was the setting, or perhaps her intuition had given her a clue as to why he'd picked this setting. For what it was worth, she decided to steer clear of any conversation that brought them back to their work.

"Tell me about your time in Korea."

"I, uh - that was a long time ago, Eames. In retrospect, I don't think that military life was for me, but at the time I liked it. But you must understand that for me, the military was my first experience away from home. And for the first time, I actually had order in my life."

When Eames nodded, he knew she understood. Besides Deakins (and Wallace, due to unforeseen circumstance for god's sake), Eames was the only person he shared some personal information with regarding his schizophrenic mother. Furthermore, Eames worked with him everyday, and had seen most of his scars, understood his sensitivities – and all things one derives from being raised by a mentally ill single parent.

"Eames. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, it's just that I don't understand why - "

"Why, what?"

"You are really misunderstood."

He chuckled, "Well, I feel that way. Was it something Rodgers said?"

"Um," Eames scraped the last few noodles off of her plate, "Rodgers is always trying to figure you out. I think you amuse her."

"Look, Eames," he sighed, "I've been very absorbed as of late, uh, I've been trying to put some things together. And uh, the situation with Ross and all the stress associated with our partnership, I mean," he paused trying to find the right words, "I guess this goes back much father, uh, back to when uh, Nicole Wallace, uh, when you were in the hospital, and uh-"

Suddenly, he was interrupted by her phone's ringtone, and before he could register another thought, his phone started vibrating in synch. They both had an inkling of why they were being called, and in unison they flipped open their phones to take their respective calls.

Surprise, surprise – another body was recovered with what appeared to be a similar _modus operandi_, not to mention matching multiple stab wounds complete with a fragrance like rose petals.

And just like it had in the past, it all came down to timing.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

July 18, 2006 – Near Corlears Hook Park, Lower East Side, Manhattan, NY

"Damn," Eames muttered, making a hard right turn, "this guy's fast. How many days has it been?"

"Well, if we're lucky, maybe he got sloppy this time around."

. . . the sound of multiple NYPD helicopters cut through the once serene summer night sky, the lights of the Williamsburg bridge at their backs. A young girl lay at the foot of the tree, bound, gagged and visibly ravaged.

"Jesus Bobby, there's a lot more stab wounds on this one, just look at the intensity - all that spatter."

"He's getting bolder, he's left this for us to find," Goren paused to play out the scenario, "He kills her, takes her with him and dumps her outside."

The rush associated with finding the remains of this serial killer's prey started his adrenaline pumping. There were so many considerations this time, so much so that he started pacing. No time for courting Eames, from now on they'd be very fucking busy. Not to mention that this particular situation was going to get ugly fast. Failure to succeed meant that they would be Ross's scapegoats. The politics surrounding this case were going to start flying out of control: no one likes it when a serial killer is roaming the streets.

"Uh, its confidence, he's coming into his own," he added his voice getting hoarse from having to project louder than the choppers.

After securing the scene and working closely with CSI, they retreated back to One Police Plaza.

"I'll be in a room," he gestured towards the multi-purpose rooms, "I'm going to start mapping, uh, charting and tracking our two victims' movements – you know, narrow our field, and, uh, if you think it's the right way to go, I'd like to start going through my old case files on Sebastian."

Eames nodded, "Okay. I'll man the phones, deal with Ross, track down our latest victim's friends and family so that we can get an official ID. I'll also start putting together a comparison comparison chart of the two vics."

Before long, he found himself deep inside the fifteen-year old case: Sebastian, what possibly could have made this sadistic killer lie dormant for fifteen years? Why come back now? Had Sebastian been incarcerated on some lesser charge?

Eames. She was rapping her fingers gently on the door. Eames had something, as she rarely disturbed him when he was on one of his "jaunts" unless it was something important.

Her face looked genuinely puzzled, "Bobby?"

He looked up from his mess of paperwork, "Eames?"

"Do you know a Jo Gage?"

"Uh, yes," he sat up quickly and scratched the back of his head, "she's uh, she's my old mentor's, uh, you know, Declan Gage? Jo is Declan's daughter."

"That's what I was starting to put together," Eames muttered, "and get this: she's the roommate of the our latest vic. It's so random. When Jo picked up my call, and I told her I was from Major Case, she said she knew someone that worked in our department. You can imagine my surprise when she said she knew you."

Goren hadn't seen Jo in years. This was definitely an interesting turn of events. He set down his case file and played with the stubble on his face. He was having one of those "what-the-fuck" moments.

* * *

July 19, 2006 – One Police Plaza, Manhattan, NY

The next morning, he set down to interview Jo. She had matured nicely since he'd seen her last, she wore the same playful pixie cut that she'd worn through most of her childhood. She approached him tentatively at first, with her trademark lopsided smile, before breaking into a broad grin, "Bobby!"

"Jo," he grinned and welcomed her with a warm hug, "it's really nice to see you, uh, though I wish it were under different circumstances."

She nodded, "I guess it's just like old times."

He gestured for her to come into the multi-purpose rooms, and sat down next to her to conduct a standard interview.

"It's funny," Goren mused, "my partner just asked me about my time in Korea last night."

"It seems like yesterday," Jo reminisced, "I miss the food, especially the _kimchee_, I still can't find a Korean restaurant that serves a better batch."

"There is a little bodega off of Broadway that comes pretty close, don't forget to ask me for the address before you leave."

It was all small talk, but he wanted her to be comfortable before he broached the subject of her newly deceased roommate, Jenna. As a young girl, Jo grew up in a crime lab, but this was personal, and he wanted her to feel at ease.

"Uh, I'm sorry to have to ask you, but can you tell me about the last time you saw Jenna?"

And during the conversation, a conversation where Jo described the last time she saw Jenna, who Jenna was with, where Jenna was headed, etcetera; was when Eames and Ross entered the room.

" . . . these photos are horrible," Jo paused visibly shaken, "it's hard to miss the true signs of torture."

He couldn't prevent the look of pride that spread across his face. Jo was behaving admirably considering the circumstances, and the fact that she still had the wherewithal to see past the tragedy and make an informed observation pleased him immediately.

Goren turned towards Ross to fill him in on the details, "Jo is Declan Gage's daughter, when Jo was a kid she was a better profiler than I am now."

Before Ross could fully process the situation, or open his mouth to comment on the information before him, Declan Gage came into view just outside the room's closed doors.

Ross was unable to hide his displeasure, "what's he doing here?"

"He's in town for a seminar, he came for his daughter," Eames quickly explained.

Goren was too surprised, and way too mentally over stimulated to follow Ross and Eames dialogue quietly in the background, _Jesus_, he hadn't seen "Dec" in years. His mentor looked a touch older than their last meeting, but not worse for the wear.

"Bobby," Declan exclaimed, before pulling him into a firm hug.

Goren did feel a little strange showing such displays of affection in front of, well, in front of two people that were not really part of this "family" reunion. Eames knew of his history with Declan, but it probably felt a little strange for her too, no doubt. Eames knew very little of his biological family, but what she did know was that the kind of reunion she was seeing today, was most likely foreign between Goren and his biological family.

What wasn't difficult for almost everyone to pick up on, was how Declan treated his non-biological "son" Goren, in comparison to how he treated his biological daughter, Jo. Clearly Goren was held in favor, while Jo was treated as a tiring afterthought. It was so blatant, that of course Goren caught it, but he didn't dwell on it; as Declan and Jo had always had this rather quirky relationship.

And within seconds, Declan was working Jo into a frenzy, picking her head, playing the role of mentor – the role that he knew so well. It was Ross that immediatly put the bizarre interplay between the two to rest.

"Excuse me, I appreciate your expertise Dr. Gage, but it's an ongoing investigation, and we are all familiar with the "Sebastian" case Doctor."

"But going after my daughter while I'm in town," Gage sputtered, "it might not be a coincidence."

To that, Ross could only force a smile, "I need a word with my detectives, why don't you," he paused slightly, "comfort your daughter."

Ross marched them both to his office, a scowl visibly present on his face. Ross took in a deep breath before speaking, "this guy is a piece of work, and I know about the doctor's multiple breakdowns Goren, so I hope you understand why I want this guy out of my squadroom. Both of you comprehend the importance of this case, I will not, let me repeat, I will not have any taints, like Gage, near this case."

"He's only here to pick up his daughter," Eames lightly reminded.

"I saw his concern," Ross noted tersely, "he knows squat about this case and he pins it on Sebastian, his white whale."

"Uh, there are similarities between these murders and the Sebastian killings," Goren offered.

"He botched that case and now he wants his rep back."

Goren was getting highly irritated with Ross, even as he was aware of his personal struggles when dealing with authority figures, but goddamn, if it wasn't for his sweet little Eames! He was doing everything he could to not verbally strike back, and even still, under his breath he muttered, "he didn't botch it."

"From what I understand detective, he drove Sebastian underground, leaving over twelve unsolved murders over five years," Ross stifled a sarcastic laugh, "top-notch work."

"Understood captain," Eames volunteered defensively, doing what she could to get Goren out of the line of fire, "Um, since the ME is still backed up with bodies, maybe we should take a run at Jenna's video store while we wait."

* * *

In the car, his head was still reeling from the day's activities. And no thanks to his new captain, what could have started out as a happy reunion was transformed into hurt feelings all the way around the board.

Eames was beyond busy, and overly preoccupied with making things work: she was busy protecting him, protecting Jo and Declan, protecting their jobs, and all the while solving the most intense crime in NYC. He could see that her shoulders and neck muscles were rigid, and her fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"Please don't take the captain's comments personally Bobby. I mean, I can see it both ways."

"It's okay," he muttered, "really, Eames, I understand, uh, you don't have to - "

"I know," she tried to smile, "I just feel bad about the way the captain treated you, and um, you know that I support you all the way on this one."

He nodded, feeling his emotions rise in his gut, his voice might betray the calm he was trying to exude, so he kept silent.

"Just, uh, you know, try to keep some distance between yourself and Declan Gage, you know, especially professionally."

They were stopped at a red light, about a block from the video store, and even though he was looking outside the passenger side window, he could feel her eyes on him: worried, searching, quiet and hopeful – all at the same time.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

July 19, 2006 – Top Notch Video, 134 First Avenue, Manhattan, NY

If it weren't for the video store's security cameras, the basic canvassing they did would have been a total bust.

Jenna's roommate tried to be helpful. Naturally she was terrified about what had happened, but was so intimidated and generally overwhelmed by the situation, that she was unable to answer the question on whether or not the security cameras stationed behind them worked.

His phone beeped and vibrated in his pocket, glancing at the display he announced to Eames, "it's Declan."

It was a text message invitation to dinner. He felt tentative about relaying the gist of the message to her. It was a natural anxiety; as Eames was stressed, and she'd just asked him to stay clear of Declan – well to stay clear of him professionally. He was also fully aware of the fact that time with Declan could very well equate with: time lost. Every second he wasn't putting towards the investigation, was a second added to Eames' plate. And already, because of the new administration, Eames was having to double her efforts. _Okay, he fucking hated asking her, but be it pleasure or business meeting, he felt inclined to accept_, "Uh, he wants to see me."

Her reaction was what he expected. He could read it in her face: she was upset. And with that, Goren was uncertain of what pained him more, the fact that he was placing more responsibilities on her while she was already maxed out, or that she was trying so damn hard not to show him that she was hurt by his decision to see Declan.

"Uhhh, I'll wait for the security camera footage," Eames managed, "keep it short?"

* * *

Post dinner with Dec, a much longer get-together than he'd planned, he took the cross-town subway. It was late. And he felt like shit. He'd been feeling guilty ever since he asked Eames if it was okay for him to meet up with Declan. All along, he knew the troubles accepting the invitation could put him in for: more work for Eames, a lot more scrutiny from Ross and a night pushing off his old friend and mentor, thus alienating and irritating Dec. And now that it was all said and done, he'd successfully managed to paint himself into a corner - just as he anticipated. Perhaps this was a self-fulfilling prophecy?

Eames had buzzed him while he sat at the sushi bar with Dec. He didn't answer, perhaps she'd found something on the tapes. Anyway, her call had been a good excuse to pick up and leave.

When he arrived back at 1PP, it was past midnight, and he found Eames sitting in the multi-media room diligently going through the video store's security footage. Upon seeing her, an overwhelming sense of guilt swept through his body. They quietly exchanged greetings before Eames resumed watching the footage. From Eames, there were no inquisitions, no insinuations. She looked dreadfully tired: her responses, facial expression, the length of time between her words. It was subtle, but he knew his Eames too well.

"Uhh," Eames sighed, "video store late at night, every guy in there looks like a serial killer."

"They're all to young to be Sebastian," he noted.

"_If_ it's him," Eames reminded, "a copy cat could be young."

"Gage," he rubbed his right temple, "he told me that Sebastian used_ Pierre Laritz_ lotion, and uh, a copy cat couldn't know that. I, uh, I found out from Dec that, that information was never released to the public."

Eames squinted her eyes at him, and frowned, seconds from asking him what she wanted to know: "Please tell me you didn't discuss the case with him." She never said it aloud, but he knew where she was going.

"I didn't mention the case to him," he deflected, his left hand held up in a defensive posture, "I didn't say a word about it. I, uh, just listened, he talked to me, uh, you know, pleaded for me to redeem him."

"Mmmm," Eames mused, "I'm sorry."

"No one's paying any attention to Jenna," Eames stifled a yawn, her eyes still glued to the monitors, "fresh start in the morning?"

"You go," he offered, "I gotta a second wind."

She hesitated before handing the remote control over, her eyes glassy with fatigue. He knew that she understood his gesture. I mean, he was exhausted too, but giving her the extra mile right now was how he showed her that he cared. She sat still for awhile, as if the idea of snoozing in her chair seemed like it required less energy than going home. He was already busying himself, eyes trained on the multiple monitors; her eyes still trained on him. For a brief second, he thought that she wasn't going to leave, he was just about to say something when she finally relented, stood up and left quietly, a look of concern or perhaps curiosity, still on her face.

* * *

He sat through another hour of footage, it was 3:36 a.m., Eames would be home by now, warm and toasty in bed. He quickly realized that he needed to dose up with some caffeine if he was going to make it through the next reel.

During the time it took him to finish two cups of coffee from the break room, followed by one trip to the bathroom, he'd finally made it through all the security footage. And thus far, there was absolutely nothing telling from any of the security tapes. Fuck, another night come and gone. At least he took one additional set of responsibilities off of Eames shoulders, and now, with at least an hour to go before daybreak, he could crawl back into one of the multi-purpose rooms to finish studying old case files, including the new file Dec slipped him during dinner.

As the new morning daylight started to creep in between the blinds of 1PP, he received a fax from the ME, and a handful of miscellaneous reports. The multiple reports had all been fielded by Eames - proving that she'd been very productive during the last 24-hours. She was covering every square inch of ground on this investigation. And it's not that it wasn't like her to be so thorough, it's just that he had observed a new intensity in her over the past few days. Eames was really worked up about the new captain, she wanted to impress, and she wanted to keep their partnership in tact. It was Eames' new intensity and drive that was her way of telling him what their partnership meant to her.

He sat back in his chair, determined to get as much done while she caught up on her sleep. First, he started with the ME report and closely compared the information between the last two vics and Sebastians' multiple killings. The largest discrepancy had to do with the absence of sperm recovered from the most recent vics. Everything else was right on the mark.

By 8:23 a.m., he had loosely extracted all the relevant information from the latest reports. Once she got in, and he noted that it was already past the time when Eames usually strolled in, he'd fill her in on all the details so they could plan their attack for the day. He was glad she'd decided to sleep in, remembering that she probably didn't get home until at least 3 a.m.

Ross was already busy milling around his desk, prodding him for any new information. It wasn't difficult to notice that the captain was uncomfortable dealing with him, which made sense, as they'd had little interaction thus far: Ross had certainly made it clear that he preferred to work through Eames.

"You stayed up all night for this?" Ross frowned at the random sampling of reports that littered Goren's desk, "look, why don't you go upstairs and bunk up for around an hour, okay?"

Ross then gestured to Eames' empty chair, "where's your partner? Call her, tell her to get in here."

Goren shrugged, but quickly decided to take Ross' offer. He walked towards the elevators, hesitant to call her. She probably needed the sleep, but then again, if he didn't follow protocol and she found out he'd disobeyed the captain so early in the game – then she'd really be irate. With that lasting thought in his head, he hit the recent call list and dialed her number.

She wasn't answering. Good, he thought. _Fuck Ross_. Now that he'd done his duty, calling Eames as requested, he was off the hook. And come to think of it, a little sleep for himself did seem like a good idea.

He'd just walked into the elevator, when his phone beeped. Eames just returned his call with a text:

**I've been with your partner.**

**All night.**

**We're having a great time.**

**Sebastian**

He read the message again, and the second time through, his heart stopped beating. This wasn't a dream, nor was it a joke. He knew Sebastian. He knew what Sebastian did to women. He been privy to every crime scene photo. The victims were always found in the same condition: murdered slowly after hours of devastating torture.

Under normal circumstances, Sebastian spent an average of ten to twelve hours with each victim, from capture to the actual killing.

He last saw Eames around 2:15 am or so, that meant that she might still be alive, _she might, she just might, oh fucking hell. _The text indicated that Sebastian had already started on her - he was doing things to his Eames, maybe even right now! And it was likely Sebastian had been doing things to her while, and had been doing so as he'd been fucking around at the office last night. And he couldn't do one goddamned thing about it, he couldn't save her, he couldn't stop the pain.

If he did find her alive, _if he fucking did_, would it be in time before Sebastian had hurt Eames too much? At this point, would it be better for her not to survive? Once the torture started, the hurt would be carried with Eames for the rest of her life. He had to find her, he had to stop Sebastian from hurting her. And if the adrenaline wasn't pumping like crazy in his veins, perhaps he would have felt pain when the elevator doors clamped around his hand.

_Fuck_. He ran straight back to the main floor of the Major Case, hollering like a maniac, and nearly bowling over a few detectives on the way in, "Sebastian got Eames, he's got Eames!"


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight_

July 20, 2006 – One Police Plaza, Manhattan, NY

"Sebastian got Eames, he's got Eames!"

Goren swept through a sea of dazed expressions on his way to Ross's office, "Captain! Captain!"

Ross came out of his office and met Goren outside his office door, "what's going on detective?"

Catching his breath, Goren was barely able to spit out the dreadful news, "I got a text message from Eames' cell phone. Sebastian's got her."

Ross' eyes narrowed as he slowly digested Goren's words. Then without warning, Ross turned his attention towards the floor, a bulk of his confused detectives were waiting and watching. With a calm, yet commanding voice, Ross began rattling off assignments. Internally, Goren twinged when the words "officer taken," rolled off the captain's tongue.

"Goren!"

"Captain?"

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Uhhh, here, two a.m., uh, you know she drives home," he spoke in bursts, unable to hide the fear in his voice.

"Well then," Ross pulled off his sports jacket, while fiddling with his two-way radio transceiver, "let's get on it, you can ride with me."

He followed closely behind Ross, but admittedly, there was something strange about following a man whose name he'd never heard of three weeks ago.

In the stairwell en route to the parking garage, Goren nearly toppled over detective Logan.

"Goren," Logan offered solemnly, "we'll get him, and we'll bring Eames back home."

His throat felt tight, he intended to thank Logan, but only succeeded in stiffly nodding his head.

Bringing Eames home. It was a nice thought, but easier still to read between the lines. Logan had been careful to leave out the most important detail of all: would they bring Eames back home dead or alive?

* * *

During the ride to Eames' apartment, he distracted himself by keeping one ear tuned to the captain's two-way. By focusing on the chatter, it kept him from backseat-driving all the way to Eames' Rockaway address. He knew every shortcut, and/or alternative routes depending on the time of the day or the day of the week. Jesus, he'd only driven to and from her place about a billion times and was capable of trekking there blindfolded. And today, he couldn't get there fast enough.

"Robert?"

_It was admittedly awkward, as this was the first time Ross addressed him by anything other than detective or detective Goren._

"Captain?"

"I can't pretend to know how you are feeling right now," Ross signaled before merging left, "but I wanted to let you know that I'm going to do everything in my power to ensure we get Eames back."

Goren nodded, his ear still trained to the two-way.

"You and Eames have been together since you were first assigned to Major Case, and, well," Ross paused, "you know, like I said, we're going to find her abductor, and when we do, he'll never see the light of day again."

"I, uh – Sebastian has a track record," Goren looked down at his wrist watch, "he's never kept a victim alive this long, if he took Eames at 2:45 a.m. – "

"It's too early to speculate, so we're not going down that path" Ross made a hard right, "as far as I'm concerned, until we learn otherwise, Eames is alive, detective."

Once they arrived, and the makeshift Major Case task force secured and broke into her modest apartment, Goren waited impatiently behind three uniformed officers. Ross was close behind him, armed and sporting his issued Kevlar vest.

Goren entered Eames' apartment with much trepidation. All past experiences combined, he'd never entered a crime scene when it was someone he knew personally.

"Clear!"

He heard the words drop from the tongues of his comrades before he re-holstered his piece. His eyes tracked carefully through Eames' entry way and into the common area: Eames' coats and warm clothes neatly hanging from the coat rack. With each step, fear gripped his heart, was she here? Did Sebastian leave her here for him to find. What would he do - what could he do? Sebastian had moved the last vic, becoming more bold with each trophy.

_No. Eames wasn't here, Sebastian was dragging this out, enjoying the attention._

"They're not here captain, Sebastian took Eames with him," Goren paused, unable to conceal the disgust in his voice, "Jenna, you know, the last vic? Sebastian's outsmarting me – he's taunting me – just like Declan said he would."

"Detective," the captain lightly warned.

"Watch out for the blood," he countered tersely. _Eames' blood, on her very own carpet. Eames was the target, and he was the fucking reason she was the target. Eames' blood, part of Eames was right here for him to see, lying at his feet._

"You know if this is Sebastian," Goren breathed heavily through his nose, fighting back his emotions, "know one knows him better than Declan does."

"Okay," Ross understood, trying to hide his reluctance, "Declan. For now."

* * *

Ross had assigned a uniform to drop him off at Hudson University, the site of the seminar Declan Gage was attending. Goren walked down a path dotted by tall sycamores; choosing to tread under the shade provided by the small grove of trees just outside of the main campus quad. The humidity was something awful, and he was beginning to feel the painful effects of not sleeping the previous night.

Dec met him to the west of the student center. They walked quickly away from campus, towards the nearest subway. And while Declan appeared naturally shocked by the news, his mannerisms suggested an intense curiosity, one that was strangely detached in regards to how personal the case had become for Goren.

"You have to start by accepting the worst possible outcome."

"No."

"Sebastian is a classic anger excitation killer, highly ritualized – torture and degradation sessions," Declan explained, "Eames is dead. Accept. By dreaming of an outcome that isn't possible, you become his fool, his -"

"Serial killers do not personalize you taught me that - "

"This one does," Declan paused, his brows furled, "Uhh, you're barely sleeping Bobby, look, look, get – get into his head, become him, the way I taught you."

But Goren couldn't, he couldn't do that to Eames. It was unbearable. His mind was simply unwilling to go there.

Declan quickly read his hesitation and decided to push, "C'mon Bobby."

_Damnit Dec, he brushed the sweat that was continually beading up on his forehead, and forced himself inside Sebastian's head. It's personal, okay, it's fucking personal. If he got Eames, and if it truly is all about getting even, about fucking us – then Sebastian will go for Jo._

"It's Jo," he rattled off, "First it was my partner, now it's your daughter, Jo."

"Good, good, good – I like that, I told her to wait at the club, we'll set a trap for him"

"You can, you can detach yourself like that? You can use your own daughter as bait?"

"Unwittingly, she is," Declan raised both his eyebrows, "c'mon, Bobby, you must see that she - "

But before Declan could finish his sentence, several squad cars swarm in from nowhere, and then he's eating cement, smelling the sharp combination of tire tread friction against the ground, the heat is pouring into his body from his lying face down prostrate in the middle of the fucking street, there's the uncomfortable burning sensation where the pressure points of his body touch the ground. He's painfully aware of the excess sweat that is creeping into his eyes. The thudding of his heart mixes with the sound of sirens screaming in his ears. _What? What the fuck?_

And he's screaming over and over, trying to get his voice above the angry swirling sounds of multiple police vehicles, "I'm on the job, I'm on the job – I'm on the job!"

And then what followed was all kinds of chaos: more screeching tires, voice commands issued, guns pointed, and all that come with being surrounded by an NYPD task force. _And just why in the world was today the day he being forced to grasp the concept that it feels about ten times hotter when you are pressed up against the cement – during the worst fucking heat wave in July, indeed, some of the worst humidity in almost a decade – while drowning amongst a dozen voices shouting and relaying information._ Everything was fuzzy, as the sweat stung at his eyes, everything was unclear until an officer pulled something bright and shiny from Dec's bag.

"Found it."

Goren had just been identified and cleared by Ross as a member of Major Case, and was rising to his knees when he saw the officer pull Eames' cell phone out of Declan's shoulder bag.

"What is that?" Declan turned his head to the side, still lying prostrate on the ground.

"It's Eames' cell phone. We traced it, get up," Ross snarled.

"I have no idea how that got in there," Declan quickly countered.

"Where is she?" Goren managed, his head still spinning in circles.

"It's Sebastian," Declan's head flailed from side to side as the officers cuffed him, "he planted it. It's, It's brilliant!"

"We found Eames' car keys in his room," Ross added.

"Bobby, Bobby, he's playing me through you, and-"

And that's when Goren lost all self-control, as he was screaming the same thing over and over, "where is he? Where is he? Where's her body, Dec? Where is he? You can't just – where is he?"

"What? No, you can't possibly think its- " Declan shook his head, "No, you're losing it, you're losing it Bobby."

"Okay," he said, stepping back, "no, I'm sorry, uh, hypothetically, where, uh," _trying, trying to fucking think, but no, this didn't make sense _and then the rage hit him like a wave again and he was back in Dec's face, willing to do anything, willing to maul his former mentor if it meant that he'd get Eames' back, "where did Sebastian put her body! Where?"

"Alright, alright," Declan gasped, unable to defend himself as his hands were now conveniently cuffed behind his back, "Sebastian has tortured and degraded her, how could he continue that? Even beyond death? C'mon Bobby, get in his head. I'm there right now."

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Back into his fucking head._

"He would use her body, uh, for maximum humiliation, and to get back at the NYPD, uh, he'd bring her body to the 1PP garage."

"Good, good, hypothetically," Declan nodded quickly in full support.

"No," Ross countered, "security would have reported any car coming in with Eames' parking permit on it."

"No, uh," Goren swallowed thickly, "not if Sebastian brought Eames back in before he alerted us. He left her for us, in her car."

* * *

July 20, 2006 – One Police Plaza, Parking Garage, Manhattan, NY

He ran, no, rather he sprinted from the captain's car and pushed past a uniformed officer on his way to be the first one to Eames' small white sedan.

"It's my partner – give me that," he ordered, grabbing a crowbar to pop the trunk of Eames' trusty ol' Honda. And for the second time that day, he approached his task tentatively. _Within seconds, he might very well know if Eames was still alive, and as much as he wanted to know where she was and what her status was - he was deathly afraid of understanding what finding her body in the trunk would mean. It would mean accepting her death, and living in a world without her._

But the time had come to pass, and it was time to stop thinking; it was time to pop the trunk. Armed with the mechanical advantage of the crowbar, and the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins, he forced the trunk open in one swift movement.

_Fuck._

The form of an adult human lay beneath a soiled, used tarp. Dried blood splatter speckled the exterior of the tarp. Between the fraction of time that passed – _the sound of the trunk popping open and the ability to register that there was in fact a bloodied body wedged lifelessly in the trunk _– in that fucking awful second, his heart dropped.

He didn't know if he had the strength to move, to look, to see her in that goddamned awful state. He certainly didn't want to remember seeing her in any abused condition. And he knew better than anyone else, once he saw Sebastian's work, he'd never, not in a million goddamned years would he ever be able to erase what he was about to see.

In addition to that gruesome consideration, he desperately needed some privacy. He didn't want all the fucking gawkers to be around him when he found her broken body. But he already knew that it had gone to far, everything was outside of his control. At this point, privacy would forever be impossible, not even in the morgue would he be able to be alone with her.

All time froze.

_Ten. Nine. Eight. _

If anyone was going to see her, he should be first.

He stepped forward, his senses muted strangely, his left hand rested on the tarp over the bodies' head.

_The body. Her body? He thought he could feel a slight heat emanating from beneath the tarp – was she still alive? Or was the kill recent? Rigor had not yet set in, yet there was no fucking response to his touch._

_Seven. Six. Five. Four._

He tentatively fingered the edge of the tarp near her head.

_Three. Two. One._

Before lifting the tarp, he closed his eyes one last time. As if on will alone, maybe she wouldn't be dead. Fuck, maybe it wasn't Eames. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't go fucking insane when he saw her body underneath the tarp.

_Dear. Lord. God._

And then his fingers tugged back the tarp. He looked. He looked again, before registering what his eyes told him. And suddenly, the whole game changed.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine_

And then his fingers tugged back the tarp. He looked. He looked again, registered what his eyes told him, and suddenly, the whole game changed.

"Who the hell is she?" Ross murmured.

_She _wasn't Eames_, she wasn't Eames;_ his head repeated the mantra over and over. His brain now firing in a kind of frenzy, the discovery of another tortured body with the same M.O. produced a host of new scenarios.

His mouth was dry and he felt dizzy. He needed to sit down. The letdown from an adrenaline rush almost always had him feeling otherworldly and slightly nauseous, not to mention that soon thereafter it would culminate into a colossal headache, (and not any old headache, mind you, but the kind of headache that was immune to both ibuprofen and acetaminophen).

The sweat from his earlier exertions had dried unevenly on his face, making his skin feel taut in areas. He could taste the salt at the tip of his tongue as he bit down on his upper lip. Speech at this point was not an option, his voice was lost to him. I mean, for fuck's sake, he'd just been scared shitless.

He felt a hand connect with his left shoulder.

"Go upstairs, detective. I'm ordering you to bunk up for an hour minimum."

"Captain," Goren managed, his voice low and pained, "I-I know this girl. I-it's Jenna's friend, uh, the girl we interviewed from the video store, uh, Amanda, Amanda Shin."

Ross sighed, "Thank you detective, but please, you need to follow my orders. Get some rest, and food for that matter."

"I can't eat," Goren replied weakly, "I-I need to push through for her."

"Absolutely not," Ross countered gruffly, "you really think you can help her in your condition? Don't make me threaten you on our first assignment together. And I will, if need be, take you off this case. Don't forget, Eames is my charge too."

Goren was finding it increasingly difficult to protest. He was exhausted, and while he wasn't sure what a few hours sleep could do, he was certainly tired of being the center of attention in the parking garage. Co-workers and uniformed officers alike were quietly observing his conversation with Ross; something he disliked immensely. He raised both of his hands in mock retreat, slumped and defeated, before shuffling quietly towards the nearest Plaza entrance.

Collapsing on a bunk farthest from the nearest entry/exit, Goren pulled off his tie and sports coat. Balling his sports coat under his head, he shifted onto his side and turned his body away from the door. He was so fucking tired; yet he was having a hard time shutting off his brain. The post-adrenaline rush was keeping him wired, and every time he tried to release, tried to let go and sleep, his thoughts would wander to dark, dark places.

In his mind's eye he could see Eames strapped down on a platform: alone, scared and pleading for help. And it wasn't that difficult for him to imagined that at this very moment she might be bleeding out from multiple wounds and suffering from all types of excruciating pain; the kind of pain that forced one in and out of consciousness.

Then there was the most terrible concept of all, the thought he tried to block out; the one he refused to talk with anyone about - the disturbing image of Sebastian rubbing lotion on Eames before carrying out the most reprehensible act of all: rape.

_Rape. Please don't rape her. _

The helplessness he felt inside made him sick to his stomach. The pain in believing that Eames was being brutally tortured upset him to such an extent that he was on the verge of breaking down indefinitely. Shaking uncontrollably and bawling his eyes out were but the least of his worries.

* * *

Ross sent Jeffries to wake him long after Declan Gage had been situated in an interrogation room. Apparently, Ross wanted a shot at Gage first. And by the time Goren entered the room, Ross was seated calmly across from Gage, fingers locked behind his head.

"Goren, this is a waste of time, charge him – I'll announce Dr. Gage's arrest."

"Alright, alright," Gage put both of his hands up, "I'll help you find Eames' body, but I want Jo here, safe - until Sebastian is caught."

"Fine," Ross raised his eyebrows, before rising out of his chair to leave, "until he's caught."

Trying to distance himself from Gage, Goren remained silent and started to follow Ross out of the room.

"Asshole," Gage muttered under his breath, waving off Ross, "No, from now on, I work only with Bobby, just like the old days."

Perhaps it was the coined reference to the past, or maybe it was the stress combined with the lack of food and the hours worth of sleep he'd been sustaining himself on. Whatever the case, Goren snapped, and turned back into the room, slamming the door,"NO! No, the old days are over Declan! They are so fucking over."

"I'll lawyer up," Gage offered in a catty tone, rapping his hand against the metal table

Goren nervously wiped his right hand across his mouth, a tick that had become ubiquitous over the last twenty-four hours give or take a few. He ambled over and set down across from Gage. In reality, he knew there were few options; hence, he must work with his former mentor._ "Eames body," Dec had said "I'll help you find Eames' body." It pre-supposed that Eames was dead. Fuck. Dec believed she was dead. And if Dec believed it, why was he still fighting it? _

_Simple really, right now, it was all he had to cling to. The hope he held for Eames being alive was the key to his lifeline: a string attached to his sanity._

He sank over the table, his head bowing into his hands._ Jesus Fucking Christ. Oh God, Eames, I hope you passed out, I hope Sebastian didn't hurt you like he hurt the others. Maybe you never recovered from the wound you received when he abducted you. Maybe you fought him off and he was forced to injure you to such a degree. Please. Please, I just don't want her last few hours on the planet to be filled with such pain. Please have mercy on her. Please. Please. Have mercy on me._

And suddenly Declan's hand was reaching out towards him. But Gorens head remained buried between his hands, eyes boring holes into the metal table. He was lost in deep prayer. His hand reached into his suit coat pocket to find the iconic pendant Eames had given him years ago_. Mary, mother of god, where are you now? Are you comforting Eames?_

Goren spent the later part of the afternoon by himself in one of the multi-use rooms, tucked away, flipping through the Sebastian case files Gage had turned over to him. _Something was wrong. Something was fucking wrong._ Goren couldn't put his finger on it, but when contrasting the current murders against Sebastian's earlier kills, something was very much off kilter. And if Eames were here, she'd remind him that he should listen to his gut on this one.

Ross interrupted him momentarily, with a quick briefing on how they were going to deal with Gage. After allowing some of Goren's input, Ross cautioned him against taking his former mentor too seriously, "This is a new situation, and you need to put blinders on when it comes to Gage."

"But you'll release him?"

"I have too little to hold him much longer. Jo's en route, and while she was difficult to locate, I'm happy to say that a uniform tracked her down. She'll be safe as long as she's under our roof."

* * *

"You're daughter is here," Goren spoke tentatively, finding it difficult to meet his former mentor's gaze.

"Why haven't they charged me?"

"I told them you might have a psychotic break and we'd lose you."

"Good play," Gage chuckled, slapping him in the ribs playfully.

"New theory," Gage paused, "Eames is alive."

"Yeah? Based on - " Goren paused, aware that he was nearly shouting with hope, quickly closed the door behind them, "based on what? Where is she?"

"Exactly, Sebastian leaves his victims to be discovered, the whole NYPD is out there looking for her, she should have turned up by now," Gage waved his hand with such confidence, as if what he said was true, and that no more thought should be placed into any alternative theory.

_Fuck. He wanted to believe. He felt his face flush with hope, his heart pumped faster, but he was afraid. Hope was a trap. Hope could only set him up for an incapacitating fall: the greatest fall and fail of his life. _But Dec's words of hope had already succeeded in penetrating into his consciousness. The concept was so fucking seductive that he found himself tremoring from the inside – be it from lack of sleep or food, he couldn't be certain. But for what it was worth, it felt like the entire eleventh floor was vibrating.

"A-a-all right, so he's keeping her alive," his voice wavered with emotion as he sat down heavily, "Why?"

"Leverage or sadistic pleasure, torturing her and you," Declan paused, rubbing his greying beard between his two fingers before added with emphasis. "Not to mention humiliating me."

"N-no, no, no, the sadism, uh, the leverage," Goren shook his head vigorously, "he would have gotten in touch with me by now."

"Well, hmmm, he would have," Declan agreed before pulling up a chair across from Goren, "which may mean he can't. We need to break it down. The timeline, Bobby – it's the key. We need to go back to the timeline, and this time you must not leave out any detail, anything . . ."

Goren pulled back in his chair, uneasy, not wishing to go down that pain ridden path again. Declan had been his mentor, a father figure at times, but goddamnit, it didn't feel right to share everything with him under these circumstances. Eames was _his_ special relationship. And it was because Declan knew Goren so well, understood his emotions, that by sharing, Declan would be given access to how Goren truly felt about Eames._ No. He didn't want to share his pain with Gage, or anybody for that matter. This was personal. This was intimate. His pain was private, and he'd learned over the years not to share._

"C'mon, come on!" Gage rapped at the table, engaging him as a teacher grabs the attention of his student. Goren frowned, his eyes wet from emotion, his muscles stiff as if in repulsion to the bizarre situation he'd been thrown into.

"A-a-amanda, t-the, the first g-girl in the trunk, uh, her wounds were uh, midnight to two a.m., the l-lethal wounds, uh, weren't until dawn," Goren winced, unable to control the situational stuttering that periodically interrupting his speech patterns (most noticeably since Eames' abduction). As from the past, his stuttering could be linked to moments of extreme stress, but it had faded over the years, and for the most part, he'd overcome most of his speech quirks years before he joined the military.

"Breasts intact," Gage's fingers pulled forward, reaching towards the case file, eyes straining to get a better look at Amanda's autopsy photos, "no trophies?"

"Hey!" Goren barked, shutting the file quickly on Gage's fingers "cut it out!"

_This was Eames for christsake! Was Gage playing him? If Gage honestly couldn't fucking understand how much Eames meant to him by now, then he'd better learn quickly. And for fuck's sake, could Gage continue to be so clinical if their roles were to be reversed, and Jo had been missing for nearly twenty-four hours?_

Goren shook his head and exhaled sharply, but it was too late: Gage's statement had already seeped into his head. He was again forced to imagine Eames tied down to the table, hanging on weakly, as that fucker Sebastian cut and deflied her beautiful soft skin. Would Sebastian defile her? Was he defiling her now? Cutting at her soft, beautiful breasts? The image lasted but a moment, yet the torment flooded his senses, his nose flared, his facial muscles twitched as he held back tears. This case was going to tear him apart, little by little.

"I-it's that gap, uh, between two a.m.," Goren spoke slowly, trying to regain his composure, "t-tthat's when he could have gotten Eames."

_Damnit, if only he had dissuaded her from leaving that night. If only he knew what he knew now, he could have left with her. Maybe if he'd renewed their relationship – they'd left home together. Sebastian would never have overpowered the both of them, right? _

"Multiples," Gage nodded, "he brings Eames back, kills the other, dumps Eames off, then something must have interrupted-"

"My phone call," Goren paused to take a breath, "to you," the pain was unbearable and his voice was breaking up, faltering with each new painful realization, "I mean, that's why you never came back – did you ever come back?"

Gage sat quietly, confounded, rubbing the sides of his beard.

"So s-s-she's," Goren paled at the thought. _Jesus Fucking Christ_, "Sh-she's trapped?"

"Bobby, Bobby," Gage answered carefully, shaking his head slowly from side to side, "I-I don't know. I mean, come on, Bobby. It's possible, but how could _I know_ with certainty?"

"Look," Gage continued, biting on his lower lip while repeatedly tapping his index finger on the case file, "everything I taught you about profiling, everything I taught you about me – it all says it can't be me."

"No," Goren shook his head, "i-it's because this is too personal. T-the information that was never leaked," Goren gestured to the case file, "that's why it _could_ be you. I-I am so tired of it," Goren stood up quickly, nearly tackling his former mentor, pushing Gage powerfully against the wall. Goren's once shaky voice transformed into a thunderous rage, "WHERE IS SHE?"

"I don't know," Gage said simply, his colorless irises met Goren's, searching, reading, probing; as if Gage could find the root of his former student's passion.

But as the seconds continued to pass, there was nothing to be said. No sound, save that of their respirations.

So that was it. That's all their two great profiling minds could unravel. They were at an impasse, back at fucking square one – and his poor Eames was at the mercy of a sadistic serial killer.

And then there was Mike Logan, barreling through the door, face perspiring and eyes wide as saucers. And it was as if Gage had faded into nothing.

Goren knew that there was news. Good or bad? Forget it, he was too mentally drained to read Logan's body language.

"Eames?" Goren asked weakly, eyes pleading.

Logan nodded quickly, and swallowed, "They found her," a smile breaking out across his face as he gripped Goren's tense shoulders on either side, "they found her man! And she's alive, she's alive, and already en route to New York Downtown Hospital."

As the immense state of terror lifted, Goren exhaled shakily. His body felt remarkably light, so much so that he believed if Logan let go of his shoulders, he might just fucking float.

"Are you okay, man?" Logan tilted his head to the side.

Goren nodded slowly, still unable to speak; his right hand gesturing frenetically before he could get out the words, "c-can you give me a lift?"


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten_

July 20, 2006 – New York Downtown Hospital, Manhattan, NY

Goren and Logan waited, (conspicuous as the cops they were), near the ER check-in area.

Logan remained conscientiously silent, while Goren couldn't stop fidgeting, his anxiety in full bloom. Reports and medical staff be damned, Goren needed to physically see Eames before he would be able to relax.

"Hang on," Logan's voice snapped him out of his anxious state, "I know that nurse." Logan mobilized quickly, dashing after a tall brunette.

From a distance, Goren quietly observed the body language and verbal exchange between Logan and the rather attractive RN. On any other day, Goren might have been fascinated with studying the behavior of his cohort, but today, he only had tunnel vision for Eames.

After several minutes past, Logan strode back, a look of confidence marked his expression, "ER treatment room 6, but," Logan paused, "they are still running a few diagnostics. My gal will wave us in when it's clear."

"Thanks," Goren voice was hoarse, he tried to smile, but the nervous energy and anticipation was coursing through his body, overriding his senses.

"I've been in your shoes. So I know what it's like," Logan paused before adding, "she's your partner. When Barek and I worked with you guys during the Garrett case, it was pretty easy to pick up on, you know, that you guys click. You are in synch, and in all my years, I've only had a few partners that really clicked with me."

"Eames is, uh," Goren nodded, looking at his feet, "I've never clicked with anyone else."

"She's going to be okay," Logan reassured, "really. And before you know it, you guys will be back at it just like before. Strong as ever."

"It could take time before she feels," Goren stumbled, "uh, there is a chance she might not want to come back, she's been through this experience and - "

"Eames is tough," Logan insisted, " She'll rally. She's got that _je ne sais quoi_, and I mean, come on, she's Irish!" Logan flashed his best Cheshire cat grin, and nudged Goren lightly, "we don't take anything sitting down."

* * *

July 20, 2006 – Hallway outside of ER Treatment Room 6– New York Downtown Hospital

Goren peered through a rectangular window slit that ran vertically through an industrial style hospital door. Wire glass, he thought, a relic from the past that had once been a popular alternative to tempered glass. He opened the door tentatively, afraid to wake or disturb Eames.

When he first caught sight of her, his breath hitched. Fuck. She looked like a child: helpless, slight, and pale under the fluorescents. Perhaps it all came down to the psychological effect of the sterile walls, all washed in white, a color that was beyond prevalent in this particular arena. Eames head was wrapped tightly, such that the images of a mummy, or a sikh perhaps, filled his head. Eames' motorized hospital bed was angled as an obtuse L-shape, a large white pillow nearly swallowing her head whole.

As Goren entered, an aide was laying several extra blankets over his partner's feet. As if asked, the aide dutifully explained that Eames complained of being cold. A surreal concept as he'd nearly died from the humidity during his drive to the hospital with Logan.

Approaching Eames' bedside, he noticed that there were deep, dark bags under her eyes. If not for this slight discoloration, the rest of the room was nearly absent of any color.

He was so happy to see her, and yet, his emotions were strangely tempered by the fact that she looked so different. It wasn't until he got within five feet of her bed that she stirred.

Eames blinked repeatedly and tried to sit up. He raised his right hand, gesturing that she should remain at rest.

"You look like hell," Eames smiled gently. In all honesty, her smile broke his heart in two. Instantly.

What affected Goren the most, was in no way related to the strength and honesty of her smile. Rather, it was her beautiful brown eyes that were now slightly dulled in color, moist and soft, which contrasted slightly her overall expression. And it was this tiny contradiction that pained him: seeing her smile at him while her eyes clearly lacked their usual luster. Years of working as both a profiler and detective reinforced the concept that "the eyes never lied." And what could he discern from her eyes, was that they clearly reflected the stress she'd been under during her abduction, the accumulative effect of the drugs currently coursing through her veins, and the true sorrow she felt knowing that he'd been put through the ringer.

A nurse came by and checked her vitals before administering what appeared to be a dosage of pain medication.

"Five minutes," the RN warned him, "she'll probably conk out in four."

Before leaving them, the nurse drew the curtains around Eames bed, allowing Goren his first moment of privacy with Eames.

Eames immediately cringed, simultaneously her heart rate monitor starting beeping at an increased tempo. Eames nostrils flared around the oxygen tubes and her breath quickened visibly, her eyeslids fluttering rapidly. He wanted to take hold of her hand. But something stopped him. His instinct told him that if she was having a reaction to the sound, touch might also set Eames off in the wrong way.

"Eames?" Goren's eyes glanced up towards the ceiling curtain tracks, "What, the sound?"

"There was a curtain," Eames whispered, her breath shallow, "where he kept me."

Eames took another deep yet ragged breath, her soft brown eyes blinked hazily, "there was a woman on the other side," her voice was breaking, the crease between her eyes deepening with each breath, "screaming. He tortured her all night."

"Amanda," he spoke softly, fighting the urge to take hold of her hand, "the video clerk."

Eames sighed, and turned her head away from his, fighting tears as the realization of who the victim was, sunk in. Her eyes blinked several times, slowly, as if she were fighting the medications, "he blindfolded me, he kept me blindfolded - but he took my gag off. He wanted me to scream."

Eames glanced back at him quickly as if for reassurance, "but I didn't."

"That's what kept you alive."

"Mmmmm," Eames head shook slightly, unconvinced.

"I'm sorry," he spoke gingerly, looking her up and down. The strength and confidence he tried to wear into her room was fading by the second.

Eames closed her eyes, the corners of her mouth raised in a mock frown, as if to chastise him for apologizing to her.

If only she knew the depths of deep self-loathing he was wading through at this very moment. He was treading water, (and getting goddamned tired), ready to fucking sink.

"You, uh, you didn't recognize his voice?"

But Eames eyelids were heavy, too heavy now, the drugs were winning – and it was important that he let them win and so that she could recover. Her brown eyes opened one last time, lingering on his for a split second, before disappearing from plain sight.

And that, was that. He had a job to do. It was all he could do after all. He'd better catch this fucker and fast. That or sit around and drown in a pool of self-doubt.

* * *

With Ross in tow, Goren inspected the crime scene where both Eames and Amanda Shin were tormented. The entire setup was rather curious: it seemed to be too much, and at the same time - perhaps it was too little. Ross had seen enough, and was ready to formally charge Declan Gage.

Goren raised his right index finger, as if to let Ross know that Goren was starting to have doubts about Declan Gage's involvement.

But Ross didn't have time for Goren's alternative theories, "You got your partner back – and now you are going to have to let your mentor go."

Well said, Goren thought. And for now, Goren was going to have to be okay with that.

Goren would come back to Eames' bedside the following day, ready to relay the horrific news: Sebastian was not a he, but a she. In fact, Sebastian was his former mentor's daughter, Jo. _Jo Gage, yet another person he knew and cared about._ Frankly, it was becoming difficult to process all the emotions that were twisting through his head. Not to mention that it was now difficult to look at his mentor in the same vein, knowing that Declan's behavior and the environment Gage provided for his daughter, were as toxic as Goren's own childhood experience.

* * *

So as Goren broke the news of Jo Gage's culpability to Eames, Goren watched as his partner's facial expressions morphed from surprise, to horror, and ultimately to sorrow.

After everything was said and done, he sat with Eames for the duration of visiting hours. Ross had given Goren a week off minimum, with the option to choose to return to work, or take an additional week, if needed. Ross also highly recommended that Goren see the department shrink. Needless to say, Goren was careful to neither accept or refute the offer.

"What can I do?" Goren asked gently, his eyes locked onto her. _It was so very difficult to see in a debilitating condition: reposing in a hospital bed, the dressing over her left temple, the oxygen tubes and IV tubing taped to her skin._

Eames blinked a few times, a look of uncertainty crossing her face, "Did they find Polly? I um, I meant to ask my sister, but my nephew ended up distracting me. In a good way of course."

Goren looked down, his leg fidgeting, "Jo, uh, J-jo-"

Eames nodded, "I get the picture. Polly was, well, I don't know how old Polly was. I inherited her after my great Aunt died a few years back."

"Look," he mentioned, his eyes looking up, "I want to help. I can't, uh, I-I'm sorry about Polly."

"Thanks," she managed a smile, "Whatever you do, just don't pick up another bird for me Goren. I don't think I'd have one if it wasn't for my Aunt."

"I can get your apartment in order," he said, "I've got the week off – I'm sure your sister is busy, uh, with uh, well, I'll put everything in order, if you'd like."

"I'd like that."

"Do you think you'll want to stay there, uh, go back there after this?"

"In the apartment?" Eames left eyebrow raised slowly, "I guess I never thought about it."

"If you want me to find an interim place for you to stay," his right hand was moving through the hair at the base of his neck, "I can start looking, or you know, whatever you need right now."

Eames eyes filled with tears, her chest quivered as she exhaled shakily, "I, I can't believe this happened."

And suddenly, he didn't give a damn about who saw him holding her hand. Fuck it, he thought. Eames isn't nearly as jumpy as she was the other day, I'm going for it. His hand closed around hers, but not too hard, as there was an IV attached to that same arm. She squeezed back gently, simultaneously grabbing a tissue with her other free hand.

Damn. He'd never seen Eames break down. Never. Not even close. This – this concept was pulling strongly on the seams of his heart.

"I'm so sorry this happened to you," he voiced shakily. Trying hard to be the strong one this time around.

She nodded, dabbing at each eye before blowing her nose.

"And, uh," he cleared his throat, "I want you to know that I'm here to support you, uh with anything, as well as support whatever decisions you make after this whole thing is said and done. I, uh, I just want you to get better Eames."

Eames sighed, her muscles finally relaxed, her eyelids heavy, indicating she needed more sleep. He released her hand, and stood up slowly to clear the handful of used tissues into the nearby trash bin.

"I'll come by again tomorrow, uh, same hours." Goren managed a smile, "meanwhile, I'm going to get things squared away at your place. I'm sure, you uh, you are getting sick of this place."

Eames nodded, her eyelids shut.

He brushed a few stray hairs from her forehead before leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.

On the transport home, the self-loathing came at him in waves. Self-doubt, disgust and utter sadness about his Eames. If he didn't have a job to do right now, a.k.a. make things right at Eames' place, he'd be lost in that bad place in his head.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter Eleven_

July 22, 2006 – Alex Eames' Apartment, 27 Beach Crest, Rockaway

Before Eames' abduction, things had been working quite well for him in the workplace. He'd been in such high spirits, even after he'd hearing the news that beloved captain Jimmy Deakins would be stepping down.

But they, (Goren and Eames), were back on track: working better together both personally and professionally than they ever had. And truth be told, about six months into their partnership, they really started clicking. So much so, in fact, that there was a time, call it a golden era, when he was certain that there wasn't a single case they couldn't crack. That's just how fucking good they were. So after a few minor hiccups in their partnership, they'd managed to rediscover their grove. And it felt great.

But all of that was before the infamous text message from the mentally confused, pseudo-Sebastian. Indeed, Eames' abduction had caused him the greatest crisis of confidence he'd ever experienced as an adult. And yes, he would be lying to himself if he admitted that he wasn't headed towards a very deep and dark depression. He'd gone into these dives before, the trigger usually being his mother. Albeit, Nicole Wallace had pushed him close to the edge on several occasions.

In the end, work had been his savior, and well, yes, Eames was clearly part of the puzzle too. Eames: his constant. Eames and work. Work and Eames. They had a steadying affect on him. They kept him grounded. And as he'd learned most recently, at a certain point, they were so inextricably connected – that it was hard to tell where one started and the other ended.

He walked silently through her empty apartment. The fact that he was present and she wasn't, was not lost on him. Eames was due to return home tonight. And so, with the aid of some contacts, and their assistance, Goren was able to treat the carpet and walls. He'd even gone shopping for Eames: an area rug, (to cover the areas of rug that were still visibly stained post-treatment), a host of perishables for the kitchen, and fresh cut flowers. He wanted her to feel comfortable in her space, but most importantly, he wanted to erase the memory of the abduction.

Goren had carefully removed any evidence of Eames' late bird, Polly. He'd hired a cleaning assistant to freshen up all the rooms, and finally, he'd brought a stack of apartment guides – just in case Eames needed to vacate permanently.

He sat down on her sofa, gripping the side arm cushion as if it might just be the life preserver that was going to prevent him from drowning in a host of negative thoughts. _What if she doesn't want to come back? What if she doesn't want to work at MCS or do any line of investigation for the rest of her life? What if she leaves me?_

And one must understand that he didn't mean "leave me" as under the notion of a personal relationship, bur rather as leaving him professionally. It was an inherently selfish thought, but fuck! Yes, he knew that he should be thinking about what was in _her_ best interest. But he simply couldn't bear the thought of losing her. Not now, not after all they'd been through...

His cell-phone buzzed in his back pocket. And as he'd been getting calls from all kinds of unknown phone numbers since the abduction, he answered without screening the number.

"Goren."

"Yeah, Bobby?"

_It was a male voice, familiar, but not what he was expecting._ He looked at the number. It was from Carmel Ridge.

"Frank?" Goren flinched unconsciously, "what's going on? Why are you at mom's?"

"C'mon man, do I really need a reason to be visiting mom?"

"Given your track record, I mean, what, do you need money?"

"Ouch. That's pretty harsh. I mean, it's not like you get all the rights to ma, and you know you are very controlling about - "

"No. You need to stop it and be straight with me. You know, uh, I've told you that exciting mom can have, look Frank, if you upset her she could have another episode."

"Mom said that you aren't going to come up and visit her this weekend. You know, she's upset about it."

_Fuck._

"Yes, yes, yes, uh I won't be able to visit her tomorrow, and I spoke with her on the phone about it, I also let Ellen, and the rest of mom's aides know about it, so they can help remind her. Look. Mom understands that I get busy at work. Okay? Anyway, I'm expecting a call from, uh, something important."

"That busy, huh?"

"Yes," Goren sighed, "Listen, Frank, I'm glad you are there for mom. But please, don't, you know, don't upset her. Tell her I'll do my best to be there next Sunday, I've uh, I've had a rough week and uh, it's not over yet."

"But mom keeps saying that you always spend Sundays with her. Can't your partner cover for you?"

"No. She can't. Haven't you been reading the papers? I'm picking her up from the hospital today. She's due to be released anytime now."

"Oh, so that's the call you've been waiting for?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't she have family?"

"Look, why don't you spend some quality time with mom while you are there. Remind her that I'll be by next week."

"Yeah, I see you've got priorities."

"I swear Frank, if you upset her. I'll know. Dr. Shimo and his staff always contact me when she has her bouts. And don't think I won't know who initiated it."

Goren felt his blood boiling as he hung up with his estranged older brother. There was little he could do for his mother at this point. Eames needed him, and at least Frank understood that there would be hell to pay if Frances Goren suffered a meltdown. While Goren hated resorting to threats, it was one of the few interactions his brother understood.

* * *

July 22, 2006 – New York Downtown Hospital, Manhattan, NY

Goren met her outside of the ER pick up/drop off. She held a plastic hospital bag in one hand and a vase with flowers in the other.

The drive back to her place was relatively quiet, punctuated by short polite conversations, none that probed to deeply into any particular arena.

"You must be happy to get out of that room," Goren started more than half-way into the drive.

"Definitely," Eames head nodded slightly, her eyes soaking in the busy New York street life.

"Are you hungry?"

Eames shook her head, "No, not really."

"I, uh, I stocked your apartment with some food. And of course, I may not be as good a cook as my mom, but, I can prepare something for you."

"Thanks," Eames smiled before adding, "you must be going out of you head without work."

"No," Goren lied, "I'm okay."

"You still look like hell," Eames muttered, staring at him for the first time since she got into the passenger side, "Ross let you keep the police issue during your time off?"

"Well, he knows that your car is still in the evidence lot," Goren raised his right eyebrow, "and I explained to him that my car was still uh, still at Lewis' repair shop."

"Is it?"

Goren nodded, before pulling up the car to the front of her apartment, "more retrofitting."

"Well," Eames spoke quietly, "here we are."

"Here," Goren offered gesturing to take her vase and bag, "let me."

She handed over the goods and started towards her front door, "Oh, I don't even know where my - "

"Oh, I've got them," he murmured pulling her house keys out of his pocket, "you gave me these, remember?"

Eames nodded, "Sort of."

"Look," he explained as he watched her open the front door, "I don't expect this to be easy, but well, I need you to know that I don't want you to do this alone."

She looked back at him, her eyes a touch hazy.

"I mean, uh," he said, "you are welcome to refuse the help, but uh, I'm unlikely to budge."

Eames swallowed slowly, her eyes and expression unusually difficult for him to read. She smiled softly, opened the front door and walked in.

Once inside, her expression changed quickly from the face of an uncertain and vulnerable individual, to that of a veteran detective, "you cleaned?"

"I, uh," his right hand immediately rubbed the back of his neck, a way for him to think about a response and avoid eye contact in the same bold move, "I had help, but I did do some cleaning."

Eames raised her right eyebrow, "was it a mess?"

"Oh yeah."

"It must have been difficult," Eames paused, "it must have been difficult to see."

He nodded, his right foot flattening the corner of the new area rug he'd brought over.

"I like the rug," Eames spoke softly, "hmmmmm, love the flowers."

"I thought you might, uh," he shook his head, "I mean I hoped you might."

"Thank you, Bobby," Eames walked slowly towards her kitchen counter before turning around to face him, "I'm sure I'd be fine here on my own, but um, I'm glad you're staying."

Her voice quivered near the end of her sentence, and he found himself unusually irate. Was this behavior innate in her genes, in her upbringing? Just what was it about Eames that made her always need to appear strong?

"Eames."

She shook her head, and refused to meet his eyes.

"Eames, I uh, I never thought I'd see you again, you know uh, see you alive."

"When I was in that goddamned room, I thought about how my sister would have to explain my death to my nephew. It's as though I was hovering above, watching her tell him about Aunt Alex. I thought about all the pain and sorrow it could cause my family. And how I was glad that Joe had died years before this, so he wouldn't have to be the one to go down to the morgue and ID my body. And of course, I, I thought of you. I couldn't bear it. And at one point, I was afraid for Sebastian. Afraid you'd do something rash. Afraid of what you'd do after all was said and done. So worried, with your amazing detective skills, that you'd be the one to find me. I couldn't bear it, I-I - "

But it was all he could bear to hear her most inner thoughts and reflections on her impending death. He strode towards her before blanketed her in his arms.

And together, roughly five paces from where Eames was originally attacked and abducted, they found comfort in each other's arms.


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter Twelve_

July 23, 2006 – Alex Eames' Apartment, 27 Beach Crest, Rockaway – 9:12 a.m.

Her room. Her bed. Eames lay but inches away from him, in repose. Her face appeared relaxed. He fought the urge to touch her again, like he'd touched her last night.

He watched her ribcage rhythmically rise and fall in even increments. Perhaps she was finally free from the night terrors that had disturbed both of their sleeping patterns several times during the night.

Over the past week, the trials they'd faced as individuals were enough to warrant professional psychological services for life. Eames had been forcefully subjected to cruel and unusual treatment at the hands of a fledgling killer, and abducted to a place where she understand that she was to be killed. Strung up by her limbs like prey, in a room where she could hear every awful sound that reverberated out of the "killing chamber," Eames had been completely conscious of her surrounding, all the while being bound and gagged in an adjacent queue, waiting for the first victim to die.

And while there was no reason to compare their unfortunate experiences, Goren too had suffered a harsh form of psychological torment.

With the ordeal behind them, he closed his eyes as his mind waded through the events from last night.

As he recalled, their first meeting, post-abduction, had been grossly impeded. Not only because Eames had been heavily sedated, but rather because the hospital could not provide the privacy necessary for the kind of intimacy their reunion deserved. Therefore, not long after they'd crossed Eames' threshold, and when they felt as if they could finally lower their guards –

"_Eames, I uh, I never thought I'd see you again, you know uh, see you alive."_

"_. . . and of course, I, I thought of you. I couldn't bear it. And at one point, I was afraid for Sebastian. Afraid you'd do something rash. Afraid of what you'd do after all was said and done. Worried about what would happen to you. I-I - "_

That's when it happened: when the pain outweighed his tentativeness about how to rationally deal with the situation. Listening to his heart, he swept in for no other reason than: it felt right. And for fuck's sake, he needed her now, perhaps as much as she needed him.

This was his Eames, deconstructing in front of him. And it's not that he didn't expect to see her break-down, but rather his discomfiture came from understanding that she was a private person, and that falling apart in front of anyone, even her partner, would pain her.

Gripping her shaking body, he became overwhelmed by their shared pain. He tightened his grip around her overcome by sadness and regret, while several thoughts wildly flashed inside his skull: the private conversation he'd shared with Jack McCoy, and regret over what could have been. Regret because there had been no time, no goddamned time in the last week, month or year, to tell her how he felt.

He felt her tears and warm breath through his shirt. Suddenly afraid that he might be crushing her, he released her when he was certain that he could perceive what appeared to be a muffled voice working against the center of his chest.

And then there was the awkwardness of height.

He never liked the fact that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes, so he gently guided her to the sofa.

"Eames," he spoke softly, his right hand stroking her back and shoulders, back and forth in a repetitive motion.

He was trying to calm her, while at the same time holding back his own need to touch her everywhere. This was Eames, and she was here: present and alive, i.e., in a state he'd only dreamed and prayed she'd be in since receiving the text message from "Sebastian."

The tears continued to silently stream down her cheeks, gravity forcing each lone droplet over her lovely high cheekbones; her eyes shining brightly in the low lighting of her living area.

"Eames," he spoke just above a whisper, his right hand brushing a tear from the hollow of her left cheek, "please. Please let me get you something. Uh, can I convince you to eat?"

She raised her right eyebrow in thought before nodding slowly.

Within ten minutes, he heated up pasta; courtesy of her family, who had stopped by earlier in the day to help him stock Eames' refrigerator.

They ate on her couch. She nibbled, while he attacked his plate. Discovering after only a few bites that he was starving.

He finished his plate and was just starting to consider going for seconds, when Eames' voice cut through the his thoughts.

"You should get more."

"Your mom's pasta is, uh, it's really good."

"She was always good with comfort food."

"My mom wasn't half bad either, she too, uh, made a mean pasta. But it was a marinara sauce with seafood, not the uh, meatball, or land animal variety," Goren pushed a stray noodle across his mostly empty plate.

"Go get more," Eames smiled, nudging him, "I like watching you eat."

"Really?" Goren chuckled, "that's not what most of my exes would say about me."

"And what would they say?"

"He launders and folds clothes neatly and is a amazing in the sack, so I think I'll keep him around," he managed with a straight face.

"Get seconds before I change my mind," Eames snorted.

It was heartwarming to see her smile, to watch her eyes sparkle with the same luster they'd had before the abduction.

* * *

While she showered and prepared for bed, he did the dishes.

Settling himself on the couch, he leaned in towards the short hallway that lead to her room and asked her if she needed anything.

He fell asleep reading an article about the Golden Gate bridge: one which detailed several theories on why more people commit suicide from the San Francisco suspension bridge than from any other bridge in the world.

A little after one a.m., he awoke when he heard her first night terror. Edging himself off the couch, he went in to her room to reassure her. And with each passing hour, he fought the all-powerful urge to keep touching her, stroking her hair, running his fingertips down the length of her arm, or spine, _or fuck, it didn't matter_.

And in all honesty, this time his need to touch had less to do with any generic sexual appetite, and more to do with the sheer wonder associated with knowing that together, they'd escaped a dreadful fate.

A fate that would have sent him running for the Golden Gate, or shit - why go that far? The Verrazano-Narrows was but a stone's throw away in comparison.

Indeed, in an alternative universe on this very night, Eames could be spending the night under the fluorescents of the ME's office. But for now, he lay beside her, watching the soothing rhythms of her respirations.

So_ when the time was right of course_, and if Eames would entertain his thought, Goren devised to ask her if he could continue laying beside her for the length of her natural life.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter Thirteen_

July 23, 2006 – Alex Eames' Apartment, 27 Beach Crest, Rockaway – 10:47 a.m.

She woke up and called out weakly, "Bobby. Bobby?"

Because she'd been sleeping soundly for most of the morning, he'd left her a half an hour earlier, settling in the next room on her sofa to read a few books and magazines he'd brought from home.

When he heard her voice call out for him, he mobilized quickly, leaving a mess of articles in his wake.

"Alex?"

When he entered her bedroom, he saw her sitting on the edge of her bed, hunched over slightly, slowly rubbing her right temple in a repetitive circular motion. He knew that look from years of caretaking; Eames was in physical pain.

"You need pain meds," he concluded softly, turning a full one-eighty before heading in the direction of her bathroom medicine cabinet.

"We should keep this by your nightstand," he suggested, pulling the prescription from her cabinet before reading the back label, "uh, according to your doctor's recommendation, it looks like you are way overdue."

"I hate those," Eames muttered, "they make me feel kind of nauseous, you know, like my stomach isn't right."

"Have you been taking them with food?"

Eames' pain had to be intense, as she couldn't raise her head to meet his eyes.

"Eames?"

She shook her head slowly.

"I know you don't feel well, uh, but we need to get some food down you when you take the pills. Even if you nibble on crackers."

"Okay," she mumbled, cradling her head in her hands.

He returned in minutes; a glass of water and several crackers arranged on a plate.

"I'm sorry," Eames spoke between bites, "I don't mean to be such a pain."

He tried to wipe the concern from his face, "look, it's going to take time for you go get back on your feet. And I happen to be an expert on people who uh, you know, are difficult, and uh, well, you are not remotely close."

"I-I don't know," she sighed, "I don't want any of this, I don't want to go to my counseling appointment tomorrow, or the recheck appointment for that matter, in fact, I don't," Eames paused before sighing again, tears were beginning to form at the corner of her eyes, "I don't - "

"Alex?"

Her silence, combined with the fact that she was avoiding eye contact, unnerved him. Without hesitation, he moved forward despite worrying that he was crossing boundaries too quickly. Setting down beside her, he wrapped his left arm around her waist and drew her in close. Relief hit when he felt her shoulders and neck muscles relax. And finally, ever so slowly, she leaned into him.

Burying his face in her hair, he whispered, "It's going to be okay."

"I, I just don't want to freak out on you."

"Don't worry," he pressed his lips against her hairline, "I can handle it."

And perhaps it _was _because Eames was in a compromised condition. After all, he had years of practice and experience when it came down to taking care of someone he loved - someone who needed him. And maybe that's all it was. Perhaps all along, he'd just needed to be convinced that Eames needed him back.

But years of experience had taught him other invaluable lessons: things are always more complex than they appear. The light had gone off in his head, but what about Eames? Would she think he had come into this out of pity?

I mean, the situation was so fucking cliché. And on top of it all, Eames was a private person. Just how much would she be willing to let him in?

Then within a heartbeat, he got his answer.

"When I got home that night," her voice was only above a whisper, "I was, you know, kinda mad at you."

He waited. Was he supposed to respond? No, he felt he should listen, and respond in other ways, physical ways: like stroking her hair, or applying another kiss to the side of her head.

This kind of connection was safe, you see? Safe because: they were close, touching, but she was faced away from him, cradled in his lap. Touching and hearing would be enough for now – eye contact? No. That might be too much.

"I was mad at you, um," Eames voice quivered slightly, "well, sometimes I'm trying to help you out, and you just," Eames paused, "you just don't get it. I was trying to help you, protect you maybe. Remember how I asked you to keep some distance between yourself and Declan Gage?"

He leaned forward for leverage and then scooted both of them back a few inches for comfort, (his head nodding adjacent to hers, touching, so she could feel the agreement rather than hear it).

"I worry about you, you know?" Eames continued, her voice finding strength through passion, "then you basically ran off to meet with him after his first invite."

He sighed and slumped forward, still gently soothing the loose strands of hair at the top of her head.

"I knew, I knew you were trying to walk a careful line," Eames continued, "when we spoke before I left the station, you were trying so hard-"

He felt her tremble, and knew immediately why she'd stopped talking: it was the tide of emotions welling up inside. And why wouldn't her emotions be building up? This conversation was taking them back to a different time and place; to a time before the storm, and as she recalled the events that lead up to her abduction, he was riding the waves of emotions with her.

_"Please tell me you didn't discuss the case with him."_

_"I didn't mention the case to him. I didn't say a word about it. I, uh, just listened, he talked to me, uh, you know, pleaded for me to redeem him."_

_"Mmmm. I'm sorry. No one's paying any attention to Jenna - fresh start in the morning?"_

_"You go. I gotta a second wind."_

"I was touched by your gesture, you know, when you offered to go through the rest of the video footage," Eames gathered her breath and regained her composure, "I thought about so many things on the ride home. Um, all the pressure of having a new boss, and then after all was said and done, you tried to make it up to me," Eames swallowed thickly, "but I was, I was still mad at you for not letting me in. You know, not letting me help you. Y-you, you just shut me out when you feel like it. That's what I was thinking. You know, when the tables are reversed, like now, when I need your help. Well, I'm letting you in, right?"

He leaned in even closer, his left cheek grazing hers, his breathing heavy and pained. He nodded again, not worried if she felt the tear that was running down the side of his face.

"I picked up my mail, like usual, set down my keys and was about to take off my blazer when I-I noticed for some reason, god knows why, that Polly didn't whistle like she always did when I came home. I mean, then I thought, well it's late, maybe she's asleep, but then again, Polly almost always whistled."

And now with each word, he felt the wave of emotion looming over his head, ready to crash, ready to break. Why couldn't he have stopped this from happening to her? If only he could have stopped this from happening to her, he would have done anything. Any-fucking-thing.

"Jo must have been lying in wait, um, 'coz when I looked over to see why Polly wasn't greeting me, she um, she must have been in my blind spot all right, because I didn't even see it coming."

He kept nodding, for at this point he could barely hear the words coming out of her mouth. Rather, he was waiting to be crushed by the wave, holding his breath while in anticipation that the rip tides would surely tear him apart, drown him for certain.

"I felt the contact, for a split second. I think I may have imagined that I heard the crunch, but I don't remember hitting the ground, or any of the events that immediately followed that first strike."

And as if Eames' were his lifejacket, he held onto her for dear life as the monstrous wave swallowed him whole, filling his mouth and nostrils, while leaving him sputtering and gasping for air like a newborn.


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter Fourteen_

July 23, 2006 – Alex Eames' Apartment, 27 Beach Crest, Rockaway – 11:15 a.m.

Eames' room. Her bed. They were both sitting near the center of the bed: his arms wrapped loosely around her, supporting her weight against his chest.

Moments earlier, Eames had opened up to him about her experiences before and during her abduction. Now in the aftermath of her personal revelations, they sat together in silence.

After several minutes, his voice broke through the quietude.

"Is the medicine working?"

She nodded against his chest.

"Do you think you could eat something?"

"Mmmm," Eames considered, "I still don't feel hungry."

"How about if I make some tea?"

"Will you share with me?"

"Of course," he blinked rapidly, slightly confused.

She shook her head, and did he hear a quiet laugh?

"I meant, will you share your side of the story - your experiences with me," Eames cleared her throat, "how you made it through my absence."

He rubbed the stubble on the side left side of his chin, beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable about how to proceed, "can I get the tea first?"

"Sure," Eames nodded, her left hand probing at the area around her rotator's cuff while she moved her right arm in wide circular motions. Before leaving the room to boil some water, he didn't miss the fact that she'd winced during those rotations.

When he returned, handing her a mug, he noticed the sickly discoloration that encircled her wrists. She accepted the tea with her left hand, and again, he was treated to the view of a patch of yellowish-purple coloration that crept up from her wrist all the way onto the back of her hand. Because the discoloration was missing from the back of her other hand, he wondered if the bruising was from where her IV had been placed.

He must have looked too long, as Eames instinctively pulled her hands closer to her body.

"I uh, I found out 'Sebastian' took you about four hours after you were abducted," he offered cautiously.

"Really?" Eames immediately perked up.

"Ross had just ordered me to, uh, bunk up," he continued, "I must have looked like I needed some sleep, or rather, uh, he knew I was up all night, I mean, well, you know, he's a detective too."

Eames took a sip, and gestured that he sit back down beside her on the bed.

"I was in the fucking elevator of all things," he laughed sadly, "the goddamned elevator. I guess I need to remember to avoid them in the future. Funny things can happen in an elevator, you know?"

She returned his smile and cupped the side of his face with her right hand. He turned into her hand, breathed in and kissed it, "I uh, I got a text in the elevator, and, I knew, I uh - I couldn't fucking believe it. I-I, uh, it was more than panic, 'coz I just about had a heart attack."

He took a deep breath and breathed out, trying to regain some control. Just talking about this particular memory caused his heart rate to shoot off the charts.

Eames shook her head, "You don't have to - "

"No," his right hand fluttered nervously in the air, "I, uh, you shared with me, I can, I-I, you deserve to hear my thoughts and emotions too."

She nodded and took another sip of tea.

"I, uh, I had to believe you were being tortured, and that you'd be uh, abused, you know, uh, sexually. Then Sebastian would kill you, uh, leave you for me to find," he swallowed, and took another deep breath, "I-I," he paused again and wiped at his mouth with his right hand, "I thought, uh, I thought you were dead."

He felt tears collecting at the corner of his eyes, but he pushed on, and forced himself to make eye contact. It wasn't easy to do, but he managed. He finally fucking opened up. I mean, what was there to hide now?

Eames took his left hand in hers, her tiny little hand gripped his tightly, squeezed, massaged his long fingers.

"If you'd been hurt, tortured, if you'd been abused, touched, uh, I don't know. I can't really make my mind go there. I, uh, I was out of my mind, uh, you know, I was," he stopped, and looked right back into her beautiful brown eyes, "with you, thinking about you, uh, thinking about life without you, Eames. Without you, I'm lost, uh, out of my mind. And then, you know, the worst part, uh the part I can't get out of my head at all, is the fact that I," he pointed into his chest for greater emphasis, "I-I brought this on you. Jo took you because of me."

He could see the emotion brimming from her eyes. It was time for a light distraction, perhaps?

"Look, uh, you know what?"

She sniffled, and shook her head.

"Do you remember after we went to the ME's? Uh, you know, when we went to Carmines?"

She nodded, wiping the corner of her eyes with her pajama sleeve.

"You, uh, you got that call about the second victim at Corlears Hook Park."

"Yeah."

_"Look, Eames," he sighed, "I've been very absorbed as of late, uh, I've been trying to put some things together. And uh, the situation with Ross and all the stress associated with our partnership, I mean," he paused trying to find the right words, "I guess this goes back much father, uh, back to when uh, Nicole Wallace, uh, when you were in the hospital, and uh-"_

"Well," he shook his head and laughed, "you're not going to believe this. No. You're never going to believe this."

"Try me," Eames spoke in full earnest.

"Maybe you'll believe me because I picked Carmines."

"I always believe you."

"I know," he answered softly, "I know you always believe me, uh, that's one of the things that I love about you."

"You were going to ask me out again," Eames looked him straight in the eye, he wanted to deflect, but he knew she'd be able to read him no matter what his action or gesture. She really was that good. She was a professional at reading people – but moreover, she was a professional at reading him.

"There were so many times I wanted to, you know, see if you'd consider. But, uh, I kept looking for the right time."

"For how long?"

"Since, uh, you know, since the Nicole Wallace incident."

"Jesus Bobby, that was like two years ago!"

He held up his right hand in submission, acknowledging the stupidity of his rather cautious approach.

Eames set her tea on the nightstand, holding her head in her right hand, "two years Bobby, I can't believe it."

He smiled sheepishly, "should I not have waited?"

"When all along I could have had someone who's been described as 'great in the sack' by his exes?" Eames jabbed lightly.

He blushed at her pronouncement, feeling a bit self-conscious.

"So who throws away two years of great sex? It's lonely being a widow," Eames spoke half-joking, but there was a seriousness in her mannerisms.

He sighed, "I didn't know if you would have me, considering I, uh, I was the one who opted out."

"I had distractions back then," Eames bit down on her lower lip, "but, yeah, it hurt. I, um, I tried to, or rather, I managed to come up with reasons for why it didn't work. You know?"

"I was an idiot. At the time, I didn't know how to handle it."

Eames nodded, seemingly accepting his lame explanation.

He smiled again, hope oozing from his every pore, "I, uh, I know that now is not the time to ask, but, uh, when it is the right time, you should know my intentions."

Eames frowned, her expression hard to read, "okay," she spoke plainly, "this is a lot to process. But I guess I would like to hear more about your intentions when I'm feeling more like me, or rather, if I start feeling like me again."

He nodded, accepting whatever fate she threw his way. Lord knows, he deserved it.

"Is there anything else I can, uh, anything I can do for you?"

"Yeah," Eames mused, "can you bring me that pile of real estate magazines from the kitchen counter?"


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter Fifteen_

July 23, 2006 – Alex Eames' Apartment, 27 Beach Crest, Rockaway – 11:15 a.m.

After nibbling on food and perusing the most recent real estate ads, Eames looked like she needed more rest. And with encouragement, she went back to sleep for most of the afternoon.

It was a good thing, he continued to remind himself: sleep equaled recovery.

While she slept, he read. While reading, sometimes he lounged on her couch and at other times he paced back and forth in her living room space, periodically peeking through her drawn blinds. Even though the media hounds had quieted down, they were still milling about like sharks, waiting for any update.

During the heat of the abduction, the story had made the papers, and was a headline for a day or two at the NY Post. Now displaced to second or third page news, he was less paranoid about the unwanted attention. So to burn off some nervous energy, Goren decided to go out for a walk, grab the latest copy of the Post and a shot of caffeine. But just to be safe, i.e. in order to avoid any media confrontations, he went out her back door.

Was it the fresh air (or the coffee) that was having an effect on him? Something about the transition from Eames' apartment to the bodega down the street, had nabbed his attention. Perhaps it was the rather extreme contrast? Eames' apartment: air conditioning, all low soft light and quiet, versus the outside: warm, humid air, with the mid-day light providing few shadows for him to find shelter in from the blazing sun. Then there was the street noise and all the sounds associated with a warm sunny summer weekend afternoon.

On his walk back to Eames' pad, he thought about his mother and his brother, and how his life seemed so much less complicated one month before.

He crept back in the back entrance, and sat down to read the Post. He was relieved to find that the current update on the post-abduction drama had been reduced to a short paragraph, and was several pages back from where it had been printed the day before.

Eames continued to sleep for most of the afternoon. The evening also remained low-key: after takeout from her favorite pizza joint, pain meds, and a touch of TV, Eames was ready to retire.

"I can barely keep my eyes open," she complained.

"You should go to bed," he suggested.

Without warning, her facial expression tweaked, "hey, don't you usually visit your mom on Sundays?"

"Usually," Goren nodded, "but, uh, don't worry, I took care of it, I mean, uh, she's in good hands."

"Thank you for being here," she spoke sincerely. Before moving towards her bedroom, she stopped and planted a kiss on his forehead, "good night."

"Good night," he smiled up from his book, "I'll be out here if you need anything."

* * *

And at some point in the middle of the night, he heard her calling out for him.

Bleary eyed, he found his way to her room, and then to her bed. Albeit it was quite dark, save for the night light that emanated from the bathroom.

He groped around before finding and switching on the hallway light, "Eames? Eames? Uh, Alex, it's okay, it's me."

She was breathing awfully heavy. His hand reached out and brushed against her forehead. She was sticky with sweat and out of breath. Yet another night terror…

"Oh Bobby, I keep hearing her."

"Huh? Oh, uh, Jo?"

"No. Amanda, that poor girl, Amanda Shin. I keep hearing those awful sounds. I-I can't get them out of my head. I-It, it was so bad."

And before he could say anything soothing, she fell into him, all tears and sticky sweat. He nearly got a mouthful of her hair in the process. She was holding onto him and shaking like a leaf.

"Oh, Alex," he sighed heavily, "I promise, uh, I know this is all going to get better. It's just, uh, you know, it's going to take some time."

"And what, you are going to stay here every night?"

"Well," he paused, brushing sweat and strands of hair from her forehead, "hopefully, you'll find a new place soon, but yes, until that time comes, I'll be here every night, and uh, if you need me in the new place, I'll be there too."

"Really?" Her voice still quivered and he could feel her warm breath on his neck. She was so close she was nearly burrowed into him.

And not that he didn't like her closeness, but this situation between them was quite foreign to him. In all their years together, Eames had never quite opened up to him in this manner. Even when she was pregnant and asked him to be with her, never had she acted as though she needed him so fervently.

He kissed the top of her head, and gently massaged her back, "I'll be here."

Eames' room. Eames' bed.

He sat; she half lay in his arms, intertwined in silence.

Her breathing was finally starting to even out when he felt something soft pressing against his neck, and then again, this time he figured it out. She was kissing him. Within a split second of his comprehending her action, she kissed him again, her lips lingering longer, was that her tongue?

His brain responded immediately as he felt the familiar sensation of blood pooling south, a twitching, buzzing sensation that paralyzed all of his other senses.

"Alex?"

No response, her mouth was busy planting kiss after kiss all over his neck and under his chin. And at this pace, he was going to be fully erect in about two more seconds.

"Alex."

But again, instead of responding verbally, the frequency and intensity of her kisses increased.

"We, uh," he gulped for a breath of air, "we should slow down here."

"I need you."

And there was no mistaking the clarity in her voice.

"I know, you're scared," he spoke, trying to untangle himself from her gently, trying to get a little space. If she probed about, she'd find that his body was not in-line with what was coming out of his mouth. And for fuck's sake, this was not an easy spot to be in.

His body wanted nothing more than to be pressed up against her, or pressed up inside her for that matter. Lord knows, he could use a release too. In fact, right about now, he could use multiple releases.

But this was dangerous, and he knew it. He knew she was in a fragile state, _fuck, he was feeling pretty fragile too. _He knew that she needed him to be the strong one right now.

Was making love the right way to go? Would it complicate?

Sex being one of the most unique forms of communication, maybe it could help? On the other hand, the detective in him was aware of taking such an action. _For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. _I mean, he knew full well that an increased sex drive was as much a behavioral response to dealing with a traumatic event, as anything else. What did Eames really need right now? Would this help or harm?

"Bobby," Eames voice cut through his thoughts between soft kisses, "yes, I'm scared, but I really need you. I need you. I need you. I need you in that way."

In the glow of the hallway light, he stared into her soft brown eyes, "Alex, this uh, you know, I don't want to do anything that will have an adverse effect on our relationship."

"I know," Eames blew a few strands of hair out of her face, "I know I am asking you to take a leap of faith, but I need you to do this for me."

Confusion flooded his entire being, what the fuck was he supposed to do? He wanted to give in, most definitely. And she was not helping: her soft, brown, pleading eyes were boring holes into his head. But on the other side of the coin, his fear of making a mistake was weighing heavily on his shoulders, and actually having an untimely effect on his erection.

She sat up, and ran her hand across the side of his face, slowly. Her fingers trailed through his hair and rested at the base of his neck, "please, please. Please help me forget. I want to think about the promise of something new, something good, I hope. Can you?"

Her words and intense eye contact rendered him near speechless, "I-I, I - "

"Can you help me forget?" she implored, "Bobby, I think this can help us heal, I need to feel you close, I need touch, please touch me."

He nodded, "okay."

He needed a little help, so he drew her in a close and asked in a near whisper, "can you do what you were just doing a moment ago?"

She didn't need any further clarification, rather she drew in close to him as she had been before, and started placing kisses all over his neckline. And soon, very soon, he felt like he might combust.

Then reflexively he leaned back, catching his breath, "wait, uh," he swallowed heavy, "wait, let's slow back down for a second."

Alexandra Eames cocked her head to the left, waiting patiently for his consideration; even in the low light, she looked devastatingly beautiful.

Upon second thought, the prospect of love-making seemed like a mistake. Forget about hurting her mentally, what about physically? Simply touching her in certain areas, and the act of intercourse would be like stepping into a minefield. The worst and most dangerous injury had been the initial blow to the head, which was left untreated for hours before she was found. The joints in her wrists and arms had been brutally strained from being suspended by a hook in the ceiling. Deep bruising on her left knee and thigh was the result of the impact she received when she fell onto the cement flooring. In addition, she had jarred both her left and right shoulders from trying to force multiple doors open, and she sustained multiple bumps, scrapes and cuts from scaling a wall in order to call out for help.

"If, uh – and I want to be clear, if anything," he spoke while he gently ran the back of his left hand down her cheek, "if anything seems off, uh, if you change your mind, or uh, like if something hurts, I mean, I don't want to hurt you in your condition," he gestured towards her discolored wrists, "please, we can stop at any time, okay?"

Eames nodded and started to pull off her grey MCS issue tee. Two things struck him immediately: one, she wasn't wearing anything underneath her shirt and he was utterly mesmerized by her chest. Two, she had lost some weight, and it was rather dramatic, for he could see her ribs, and it actually spooked him out. I mean, Eames was already pretty petite to begin with. He'd seen her through her first, second and third trimester, and in that time, he'd been able to see her body slowly change over time. And although Eames chest size had also gone down significantly, she still had beautiful breasts. And what wasn't to adore? At one point, he'd even had the unique experience of tasting colostrum, and yes, he'd be lying if he hadn't replayed that experience in his head over the past few years. It was a first for both of them, transforming their experience into an extraordinary intimate moment.

Then there was the other unusual fact: he'd never slept with her when she wasn't pregnant. This posed another interesting question of whether having unprotected sex with her right now was insane. At this point, he didn't feel like prying into whether or not it was a good time in her cycle to be playing with fire. He had good self control, he could pull out, but he wasn't a total idiot, he knew about pre-ejaculate and biology.

She reached out to him again, "please Bobby."

He wrapped his arms loosely around her, afraid to touch too hard, even as she began planting more kisses in and around his neckline and jaw.

"Ohhhhh," he groaned, feeling the intense need to lose control, his arms clasped her back and drew her in so that she was pressed deep into his neck with very little wiggle room.

After leaving a trail of soft kisses down the left side of his neck, she drew her head out and pushed him onto his back, pulling up his undershirt to place soft, quick kisses all around his abdomen. She was making all the right moves, successfully removing him from his thoughts - while tossing him into a state of mind where he was forced to succumb to pure instinct.

Had he had his faculties about him, he would have been able to figure out how Eames knew all his turn on spots. Two years ago, during a rather humiliating interrogation session, "Bianca Meyers" fully disclosed to Eames about his penchant for attention to his neck and stomach during foreplay. Eames either had an elephant's memory, or she'd taken excellent notes: as due to her mindful attentions, his sexual organs were fully aroused.

Fully awakened and ready to pleasure her, Goren sweetly rolled her on to her back to contemplate her perfect breasts. He heard her breath hitch as he placed his head between her breasts, coming up to each side, methodically paying careful attention to every inch of skin surrounding her nipple. He suckled at them gently, reliving and reviving the memories they'd shared during their time together when she had been pregnant.

The slow stroll down memory lane seemed to cause Eames great pleasure, for every time he started to trail his way south she'd nudge him back to her breasts. He was only happy to oblige, (up to a point of course), as he felt a growing urgency to get inside of her soon, in that he was extremely aroused.

At the right time, he hovered over her just so, ready to take the full leap and find the place he desired to be. It was one of his favorite moments while sharing a sexual experience: the need was intense, and the first few moments of when he entered her (save the buildup to eventual orgasm of course) were sometimes the most intensely pleasurable.

"Ohhhhh," he groaned again, feeling the first sensations of penetration.

The rest was kind of a blur, he became lost in the passion of it all. The "need" that Eames had been vying for during the last twenty minutes of prior conversation or so was not lost on him. He also had been wanting to share this with her ever since he opted out. He'd never stopped wanting her. And _this_. _This_ felt so good, this connection, this need to just be with her, ride it out with her, build with her.

And then in all the frenetic back and forth movements between them, Eames suddenly stiffened, wrenching to the side, her face wincing in pain.

He knew something had gone terribly wrong because she'd stopped moving with him.

"Eames?" he managed between breaths.

_Oh shit! H_e figured it out and immediately released her wrists. When had he grabbed on to them? _Christ! What the fuck was he doing?_

He quickly withdrew and rolled off of her to give her some space, "oh, I'm sorry, uh, I'm sorry, I-I, I got caught up in the moment, I-I, uh - "

Eames finally opened her eyes, and was able to take some controlled breaths, "it's okay, it's okay, I know you didn't mean too."

He must have looked beyond mortified, her facial expression and words reflected it, "Bobby, it's okay. Really. Don't fall away, come back, I still want you."

"I-uh, I might need a little time."

"Oh, well, that's okay too."

His penis had softened considerably. And now that his brain was spinning the event over and over in his head, he no longer could focus on pleasuring her, or himself.

"I'm sorry Alex," he said again for good measure, "and, uh, this was all in the name of taking your mind off of the, uh, you know."

"When you are ready, we can try again," she smiled warmly.

He smiled back, but internally he worried that he'd never be able to get up and maintain an erection until all her physical wounds were healed.

Suddenly, he had a better idea.

"I think this will work."

Eames raised her right eyebrow, "oh yeah?"

She erupted into giggles when she realized what he was talking about, "yeah, this will work."

"Now I can see why your exes kept you around," Eames spoke between deep breaths, her hands playing with the wispy curls on either side of his head. She sighed and her hips twisted in pleasure from the soft manipulations his tongue made around her sex. He came up for air, lightly resting his chin near her navel. Before resuming where he left off, he gently traced a linear scar that rested just above her pubic bone, left to right; her body shivering in response.

"C-section?"

She nodded.

He kissed the barely visible scar tissue before planting multiple kisses all the way down towards her labia, "Is this helping?"

"Yes!"

He whispered softly, "I love you Alex."

But before she could respond, he went back in tongue first, only to be rewarded by the guttural sounds of her approval.

And sometimes, it really was all about the small victories.


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter Sixteen_

July 24, 2006 – Alex Eames' Apartment, 27 Beach Crest, Rockaway

He woke up in her bed, the taste of Eames still on his lips. _Mmmmm_. He rolled over onto his left side and saw that she was still in a deep sleep.

In the early morning light, he looked around her room, his mind running over the familiar layout. Not much had changed since the last time he'd been invited into her bedroom. There was of course, the new print he'd bought her for Christmas the same year they'd tried being intimate outside of work. The print suited her, and this room. Soft, delicate hues, millions of brushstrokes that each reflected light at different wavelengths. Beautiful.

Years ago, during their first two years together they worked a case that took them to a remote art museum in the 'burbs. He remembered telling her that "Impressionism" wasn't his thing. At that time, maybe it wasn't. But regardless of what he'd said back then, lying underneath the large-scale print in the morning light gave him a new sense of appreciation.

Perhaps he was capable of change.

And while he was dwelling on the idea of change, there were still a few things that he knew he couldn't. For one, he wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep with her, cuddle, snuggle and enjoy the sensation of being in bed with her. But sadly, he'd never been able to sleep-in a day in his life, unless it was detoxifying from a night of too much alcohol or any other physical illness. So, as much as he wanted to fall in line with her and soak-in a nice snooze with her, it was physically impossible. Which, of course, lead to the second impossibility: not getting fully aroused by being in such proximity to her body. Lying next to her certainly wouldn't put him to sleep, rather, it would have his brain pumping impulses to his reproductive organs.

Understanding his limitations, he rolled out of bed gently as not to wake her, and headed out to her main living area. It was still pretty early, with so much time on his hands, it was easy to crack open another book. He'd just started working on a stack that he'd been meaning to read for ages: books that had nothing to do with psychology, mental illness or the criminal mind. He gently bent the spine and hunted for the dog-eared edge of his last stopping place. Two paragraphs into the third chapter and his phone vibrated on the side table to his left.

"Goren," he answered simply. He immediately recognized the prefix as a call from MCS.

"Good morning, it's Ross."

And although Goren hadn't worked with his new captain for more than two weeks, it was already easy to recognize his captain's irritable, edgy and rather sarcastic tone.

"Captain."

"I won't beat around the bush," Ross replied, "have you seen _The Post_ this morning?"

"No," he answered truthfully, "I just woke up."

"Yeah," Ross laughed bitterly, "I'm usually sleeping at this hour too, but you see, I just got a call from the Chief of D's regarding one of the side headlines."

"Since, I'm assuming you don't have a copy in your hands right this moment," Ross continued, "I'll do you the courtesy."

Goren's mind whirred. No single media individual had approached him in the last couple of days, nor had he observed much action up and down her block.

"The headline reads: NYPD conflict of interest? And then the sub-headline: Abducted MCS detective recovers with help. And if that wasn't enough, to the side of the article, there is a picture of you leaving her apartment late yesterday morning. And by all accounts, save this excursion, the paper reports that you've not left her side since picking her up at the hospital."

Goren nodded, "that's true."

"Look, I realize this is a bullshit story, Goren, and that_ The Post_ is always eager to ride the NYPD. I'm sure most folks aren't even phased by this headline, in fact, the public is very much in support of Eames. But, obviously the Chief of D's is less than pleased to get any remotely controversial coverage. Well especially after the "rape cop" trial that's been ongoing."

"What is it that the Chief of D wants?"

"They want to know that this story is just as I said, a bullshit story. They want you to release a statement that you are not having a relationship with Eames, you know, the standard blah, blah, blah and then, you know, be mindful to draw better boundaries, keep your distance for a while, or be more stealth."

Goren was silenced, he didn't know how to respond.

"Look," Ross qualified, "I don't want to seem heartless here. Uh, how is she?"

"As well as one can be after they've been abducted, strung up and tormented all night. Uh, you know, she still needs prescription strength pain meds, and uh, can't sleep because of night terrors."

"She should be starting counseling sessions today?"

"Yeah."

"Well," Ross paused, "just for my clarification, um, there isn't anything going on between you two?"

"Really?" Goren's voice rose two notches in agitation, "I mean, uh, she's a widow and she's got no one to look out for her! You expect her parents who are now retired in 'upper state' to pile into her one bedroom? Her dad's on medication for his heart! Her sister works part-time and is saddled with a toddler and a full-time working spouse. The rest of her relatives live in Massachusetts. Who? Who is supposed to take care of her?"

Ross sighed, "Calm down, I understand that this is very emotional for you. And the point is, I gave you this time off for precisely this reason: time for the both of you to work through this difficult time. So please don't misunderstand my position. I am in a tight spot, but let me reiterate that I do not believe that there is any wrongdoing on your part. Honestly, I think the Chief of D's has it out for you – and we could just as easily make the statement for you. I mean, 'Joe-Q public' doesn't understand what a NYPD partnership is all about."

"Again," Ross continued, "I'm sorry to upset you. And, well, let me see what I can do to calm the political waters."

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"How are you doing?"

"Okay."

"So," Ross paused, "if you are getting antsy, I have a consideration for you."

"Yeah?"

"Logan's replacement partner won't be here for another week, so he's flying solo right now. And because I'm short a set of detectives, I've been unable to give him a break."

Goren remained silent and waited for Ross to make the offer.

"You don't have to make a decision right now," Ross stated, "and you still have the option to take another week off with pay if you need it – and see counseling, which I highly recommend. Now with that said," Ross paused again, "if you did want to come back early or at any time, there are plenty of cases to become involved in."

"Thanks," Goren replied, "I'll uh, I'll get back to you on that."

After hanging up, he shook his head slowly, rubbed his left eye and breathed out heavily. Why couldn't he just have his fucking cake and eat it too? I mean, he'd been in love with Eames for years now, working alongside her, and to what avail? They had the best fucking record in MCS.

When had he fallen in love with her? In Deakins' office on their first day together? No.

Indeed, it was difficult to gauge, but somewhere in that first two year period together, regardless of who he was dating on the side, he was already totally hers. Oh yeah, he knew that most guys might not like the idea of being "owned," but he could give. She could have his heart and soul. After all, she was the only one who'd ever cared - ever really cared.

And still, it wasn't that simple. I mean, he knew all about his_ delightful_ quirks. And yes, the list of quirks had ruined many intimate relationships: He was a whack job _and_ an acquired taste. He was moody, pensive, head-in-the-clouds 24/7, addicted to solving the puzzles and so fucking curious (all the time). He was an asshole, demanding only perfection: all the time, every day, he demanded that Eames give him her best. And on the flip side, there was the fact that he wouldn't share; he was private about his personal upbringing, and about his family.

What other charming traits could he add to the list? He hated the beach, loved reading the Smithsonian, Car Magazine and just about any reading material he could lay his hands on. During reading frenzies, he could block out people for hours when he was in the zone. And that was just the start . . .

He was constantly getting caught up in a muse, a true geek to the core, loved facts and knowledge more than anything else. He loved studying people, loved getting in their heads, loved kinda fucking with them – but not in a cruel way. He loathed authority, and doubly-detested men with authority. Fuck, he hated most men. He hated his dad. He loathed injustice and bullies. His greatest anger was often tapped when he felt like something more powerful was taking advantage or abusing another who couldn't defend themselves; therefore, he found crimes against women and children to be particularly despicable. Which is why he knew from the start that he couldn't work at the Special Victims Unit. He could be copiously angry, sad and sensitive - or boorishly stubborn. And surprise! To this point, he'd been unable to have a long-term relationship with anyone. Save her of course, and the job - ha, the fucking job. He loved the job.

So for several hours, he sat alone on her couch, full of dark and brooding thoughts: pending Ross' update about the Chief of D's - everything was colored in neutrals. It wasn't until his phone alarm buzzed, that he was able to break from his mood.

It was his back-up alarm, not that he ever really needed it. This alarm was mostly set to remind him that he'd have to wake up Eames so that she would have time to get ready for her first counseling appointment.

And with that in mind, he put on some hot water for tea and arranged a few crackers on a plate so that she could take her pain meds with food. When he reached her room, Eames was still blissfully asleep. He hated having to wake her when her body needed the rest. Placing the plate of food next to her meds, he walked across the room and drew open her curtains. Leaving the room for a moment, he came back with a warm cup of tea. Placing the tea on a coaster near the crackers, he sat down near the foot of her bed.

"Eames," he spoke quietly.

No reaction.

"Alex. Alex, it's time to wake up, uh, you've got your counseling appointment this morning."

"Mmmmm," Eames groaned, "Okay."

He watched her slowly push herself out of bed. He handed her the rumpled tee that had been taken off the night before.

"Thanks." Eames smiled, "have you been up long?"

"For a bit."

"Look, uh," Goren cleared his throat, "I got a call from Ross this morning. He, uh, well, first of all, let me tell you that _The Post_ has reported on my involvement in your recovery process."

Eames shook her head, "what a gossipy rag."

"And, second," Goren continued, "Ross asked me if I wanted to come back a little early, I guess they are a bit short changed right now."

"Hmmm. Is that what you want to do?"

"I, uh," Goren shook his head, "I haven't actually made up my mind. I wanted to run it by you first."

"I think," Eames picked up a cracker and inspected it before taking a nibble, "I think that you should do what you feel comfortable doing. If you feel you are ready to go back, then go for it."

"I'll be asking for a flexible schedule until, uh, that is until you know if you want to return," Goren frowned, "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to sway you one way or another about coming back, but I, uh, I want to be able to you know, pick you up, drop you off at appointments, and uh, be there for you if you need me. You know, be there in the evenings as you requested last night."

Eames nodded and took another bite of her cracker, "thanks."

"Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"

Eames shook her head, "No, thanks. Look, why don't you head up to 1PP today after you drop me at my appointment. That way, you can get more details about your workload and responsibilities. I can get a lift home from my sis, it's her day off and um, she's been bugging me about going out for some apartment hunting. I think she's already contacted her broker."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"I can be back for dinner," he suggested, "I'll pick up some take-out on the way back, uh, just buzz me when you know what you'd like."

Eames nodded in agreement before adding, "I feel better today. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm still going to take my meds, but, I'm really feeling better. I keep thinking it's because I slept really well, that or um, our late night healing session really worked wonders."

He cheeks reddened slightly when he heard her creative euphemism for the first intimate session they'd had in several years.

"Well," he sighed, visibly relieved, "I'm glad you are feeling better, and, uh, you know, if you feel up to it later, we can always continue with the healing sessions."

Eames giggled, "You're a quick study, Goren."

And in less than an hour's time, they'd hit the road, Eames off to her appointment and Goren back to 1PP.


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter Seventeen_

July 24, 2006 – One Police Plaza

After dropping Eames off at her appointment, and informing captain Ross via cell of intentions to come back on a part time basis, Goren spent a good half hour at his desk. He found multiple ways to direct his attention as he waited for official clearance from Ross, (who was currently tied up in a meeting). While the free time gave Goren the opportunity to order and reorder his desk – and flip through a few new manuals and magazines that had been sitting in his office mailbox, he tried not to remember what it had been like during Eames' maternity leave, sitting and staring at her empty chair and desk.

"So, how about this fucking heat wave?"

He recognized the voice before he swiveled around in his chair to face Mike Logan.

Goren lifted his right eyebrow slightly, "livable with AC."

"So," Mike leaned up against his desk, "I hear you might be able to help me out with my caseload."

"What have you got?"

"Two bodies found about a week apart, similar M.O.s and characteristics, you know?"

And just as Logan was handing him the case file, Ross came out of his office and bee-lined over.

First Ross turned towards Logan, "I see you are already helping him get acquainted with the case," Ross noted before opened up towards Goren, "you're officially back on, flexible hours as requested."

"Okay," Ross wrapped the top of his desk, "so what we waiting for? Get to it."

"All right then," Logan stood up, "you ever been to an All-girls Catholic High School?"

"I, uh," Goren started, turning the autopsy photos around with his fingers.

"Me neither," Logan laughed, "at least not in an official capacity. C'mon, I'll drive."

Logan drove, while Goren closely studied the files from the passenger seat.

"A fetish for women's undergarments," Goren spoke as he flipped through several statements in the file.

"Yeah," Logan cleared his throat, "and the attacks were in the same general area, I mean, the 2-9 didn't want to tie 'um together. And you know, it's there beat, but, uh, the last vic was Corporal Jenny Rondell."

"The daughter of Representative Rondell."

Logan nodded in affirmation, "Rondell, as you know, politically backed and supported Pataki, not to mention Branch."

Goren flinched slightly at the mention of district attorney Arthur Branch. Their dealings in the past had been less than agreeable.

"If these two are connected, then this guy is just starting to find his stride," Goren read the M.E.'s report on Jenny Rondell, "struck and beaten with a blunt force object, before being strangled to death – uh, this can't be his first panty raid or assault, have you checked the database?"

"I've had some interns working on it, as I've been running around with my head cut off. But I wholeheartedly agree with you, there should be complaints lodged that make a pattern," Logan shook his head, "interns, can't even find the break room 'round here without a map. And truth be told, I'm running about two steps behind, you know, but maybe now that I've got a partner…"

Goren nodded, "so, uh, the Catholic school?"

"Andrea Lloyd, his first vic, attended the school."

"The police report indicates she was found in an alley just north of the school, but uh, there are indications that she was attacked on the grounds?"

"Near the back of the property, there is an equipment room near the track."

With Logan filling in the details, Goren lost himself in the puzzle. And for a while, life almost seemed normal, puzzle in hand, mind-whirring in careful concentration. He could do this, this was familiar, this was something he was very good at. Lost in work, the time passed quickly, he could have worked on the puzzle all day if it weren't for the familiar buzz of his cell. He answered before he looked at the number, "Goren."

"Hey."

"Eames," he turned away from Logan to give himself a touch of privacy.

"How's your day coming along?"

"Uh, good. How are you feeling?

"Not bad, not bad."

"Oh, yeah, uh, dinner? Did you have a place in mind or, uh?"

"Sure. How about pasta – I need some comfort food. Angel hair?"

"Absolutely. Anything to drink with that?" Goren asked before glancing at his watch, "shit, oh, it's after five. Just water? Okay. Sorry, I'll call it in now and I can be there in an hour?"

"I'm looking forward to it."

He hung up and swore under his breath. How did the time get away from him? Eames was supposed to be his priority right now.

"Everything okay?" Logan asked.

"Yeah."

"How is she doing?"

He sighed, and ran his left hand through his hair, "good. Good."

"Hey. Don't sweat it, Ross told me about your scheduling. Get out of here and tell her that we are all thinking about her."

Goren nodded while calling in their take-out order.

Besides take-out, he had to pick up one more item at CVS before he returned to Eames' place.

* * *

She looked different somehow. At first glance, it was easy to assume that she'd had a rough session. The bags under her eyes might have been from fatigue: lots of tears, or more pronounced because she was wearing little or no makeup. At second glance, he realized that it had to do with the fact that she was wearing her hair up. A large hair pin or clip, he could count the times she wore them, usually at funerals – when she was also wearing her blues. _It usually took his breath away, he'd never been a guy that was into dress-up or uniforms, but Eames? She looked hot in her blues. _

"Hi," he spoke a bit shyly, placing the take-out on her kitchen table, "uh, I hope you aren't starved."

"No. But look! I took my evening dose with crackers," Eames proudly noted, pointing towards the package of wheat-thins that were still set out on the kitchen counter, "see, an old dog can still learn new tricks."

He smiled, joining in to help set the table, "you, uh, I like it when you wear your hair up, uh, it looks nice."

"Oh," Eames reddened a bit, "I just, sort of - well, thanks."

She continued after a pause, "Apparently, I'm supposed to work on taking compliments."

He nodded and smiled to himself, as he put down two place settings and served portions from the Styrofoam insulated carry-out boxes onto dinner-plates, "How, uh, how did it go?"

She sighed, sitting down and pushing herself in to the table before laying a napkin on her lap, "it was too emotional, even for me. I was a wreck. I've, um, I've got lots to work on - from the abduction of course, and I guess there's still some baggage that I've been carrying around since Joe."

He studied her quietly, she was trying to share as much information with him as possible, without making herself upset of course.

"I'm going to make this woman very rich," she laughed, "we are talking years of sessions."

"It's uh, it's understandable. Apparently, I'm a walking case study. I-I, I think it comes with the job," he paused, "uh, would you like to share some of my side salad?"

Eames shook her head no, while stopping mid-mouthful to savor her first bite of pasta, "Mmmmmmm. Oh my god, this is so good."

"You, you must have been starving," he swallowed a bite, "I'm sorry."

Eames shook her head vehemently and laughed, "No. No more apologizing for bringing dinner. Anyway, how was you first day back?"

"Good. As mentioned before, Ross wanted me to give Logan a hand until his new partner transfers. And as to be expected, Logan is swamped, over his head really. He's, uh, he's got his own serial killer to deal with."

Eames cocked her head, "really?"

"If Logan's able to tie the two murders together, or if another body pops up with the same M.O., it's probably going to get lots of press," Goren spoke between bites, "and when it does, Ross might very well pull this from under him, or case share. This could turn into a big one. Uh, it has all the markings."

Eames nodded slowly, digesting what he had to say, "Logan's a good detective, he'll manage, and, with you to assist? You'll have the suspect in a heartbeat."

And that's how it passed. Dinner went by pleasantly, with little distraction. But at the close of it all, as Eames slowly lost interest in her meal, he could tell there was something weighing heavily on her mind.

He was determined not to draw it out of her, he knew she'd say what she wanted to say when she was ready.

"I do want to come back."

He stopped mid-bite and looked up at her for clarification. His heart two-stepping with hope.

"Work," she continued, "maybe it's premature, but I do want to come back."

He waited patiently, quietly, not wanting in any way to jump in and interrupt any thought, not wanting to answer to quickly, smile to brightly, persuade or bias the thoughts that were now streaming out of her mouth.

"We make a good team, you know?"

Maybe he was just seeing things, but he swore he could see moisture building slowly at the corner of her eyes.

"Yeah," he spoke softly, feeling the time was right to pull his chair closer, to steady her arm, to hold her hand.

She sniffled and bit down on her lip, "but, um, I don't know how to process all of this. I don't know how to define us. I'm so goddamned confused."

And with that, he started talking – a lot, (a lot for Robert Goren that is). He told her about his first impressions of her. He reminisced about a few of their memorable interrogations and investigations. He let her in on how he'd started feeling about her, even before the fateful night she told him about her pregnancy in the elevator. He spoke about the incident with Nicole Wallace, and the conversation he'd shared with Jack McCoy. And because all of this chatter seemed to calm her, and because she looked on him with the most piercing interest, he rambled on about some of his nightmares and dreams. He told her he was afraid to have kids, yet somewhere in the back of his skull, he thought it might be nice to try. But he hadn't given it enough thought.

And because she still looked like she wanted more, he even tried to impress her with a magic trick, using the pendant that she gave him for Christmas. It was a classic distraction technique, but she fell for it like most. It was adorable.

But she was now a sponge, and she wanted and needed even more from him. So, he edged in even closer and told her some of his darkest fears: how he was afraid of her sometimes, afraid of a relationship between them. Afraid of living in the shadow of Joe . . .

And when it got too serious, he pulled another magic trick out of his hat.

They laughed a bit, made out a bit, and mutually decided that figuring it all out tonight wasn't that important.

When the time seemed urgent enough, he pulled himself up and grabbed the plastic CVS bag from his coat pocket and took the box of condoms into her bedroom while she freshened up.

They played and petted each other extensively, finding comfort in the simple act of touch.

This time, he had better control, kept his hands carefully away from her bruises.

He felt her titillating soft breath against his skin, her tongue wagging from side to side against his collarbone.

And now, he knew that he wanted more.

He felt her strong hands grab at his shoulders as she lay beneath him, her hips flexing in rhythm with her legs: all lax muscles, and hips tented downwards before tightening and pulling her legs together slightly, followed by her hips jetting up against him for maximum pressure, and the cycle repeated itself an innumerable amount of times.

With each turn, the cycle shortened, and his instincts told him what this meant. She was quietly grunting with each flex of her hips, her breath short and heavy, panting. She moaned something about coming, and he responded by supporting her under her lower back, pressing and holding himself as compact against her while she lost all voluntary control of her body. Suddenly her mouth softened against his skin and pulled away from his chest, miniscule contractions pulsed around him.

And it was all-amazing and everything he'd ever fantasized about.

He pulled the thin latex wrapper off of his softening penis and went into her washroom to clean up.

When he returned, she was still catching her breath and most importantly, smiling.

"I do love you," she said as he laid back down beside her.

And really, that was all he'd ever hoped and dreamed for.

Jack McCoy had been dead on.

No matter what could come of all of this, he'd been given a second chance.

And indeed, in the moment, it _was _wonderful.

* * *

The End

Thank you to all who helped me get through this trilogy. Your reviews and support made a huge difference and at times, very much shaped the stories.

-MDH


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